That's Dave Owen, sometimes known as Singapore Dave and sometimes as Malay Owen. But whatever the name, his business is the same-sin! He owns the Scarlet Dragon Dance Hall, in which a double handful of the most alluring hostesses in all Bangkok ply their trade. He also owns the Jade Grotto, where the most sensuous and compelling prostitutes in the Orient sell themselves. But dealing in flesh is not enough for Dave Owen, he must find something else to turn into big profit. He looked and he found it when Jaybee Weber showed up, a movie producer high on ideas but low on funds. It was a natural tie in, a sharpie from Hollywood and a ruthless soldier of fortune with a monopoly on the vice life in Thailand. It spelled movies-and money. And a side of the travel world not found in the guide books. Passion, lust, and death!
CHAPTER ONE
The phone rang just as I was getting comfortable.
I cursed softly in English, Thai, and-for good measure-Malayan, then rolled over in bed and lifted the phone from its cradle. I should have ignored it, of course. But while I can leave a letter unopened for days and a willing virgin unentered for hours-well, minutes, anyway-I can't stand to let a telephone go unanswered.
It was Ed Jesperson. Ed Jesperson the compleat tourist. I could picture him at the other end of the line, his semi-bald head glistening with sweat, a petulant frown on his face, a highball ('Make sure you make it with good American whiskey, boy!') in his hand.
"Hello, Dave! Guess you're surprised to hear from me, eh? Figured I'd gotten lost among all the other old ruins, huh?" A hearty laugh from his end of the phone. I made polite amused sounds.
"When did you get back, Ed?"
"Just walked into the hotel five minutes ago. Got fed up with seeing the sights. Don't see what's so special about Angkor Wat. Just a bunch of rocks in the jungle. Louise was smart to stay in Bangkok where you can get decent food and drink."
I grunted politely.
"Say, Dave, that's what I called you about. Have you seen the little woman? Fellow at the desk says she went out sightseeing this morning-at least, I think that's what he said. Damn fellow hardly speaks English."
"Did you try shouting at him?" I inquired.
"Always do. Only way to get these Chinks to pay any attention."
"Actually," I said, "the Thai are a distinct racial group. I mean, they aren't Chinese."
"All the same thing," Ed snapped. "Chinks or Wogs. They'd none of 'em be allowed to sit up front in a bus back in Memphis. But have you seen Louise today?"
I rolled over and grinned at Louise, who'd been holding her ear close to the phone. She grinned back, shook her head and stretched her lithe, naked body on my bed.
"No, Ed," I said earnestly. "I haven't But I wouldn't worry too much. She's probably just doing a little exploring on her own."
Louise propped herself up on one elbow and began to explore my body with her slender fingers.
"Can't help but worry," Ed went on. "All the guide books stress how careful you have to be not to pick up any tropical diseases-they say the native restaurants are full of germs. Though God knows, I've told Louise often enough never to put anything to her mouth that hasn't been cooked first."
Louise now leaned over and begain to explore me with her lips. I pushed her away-or tried to. It was hard to fight off a determined woman with one hand. Especially as it was so much more fun to let her do what she felt like doing.
So I simply lay back on the bed, one arm behind my head, the other holding the phone to my ear, and let Ed's wife have her way. Her particular whim at the moment was to move around and continue her explorations.
"When did you see her last?" Ed persisted.
I sighed quietly and said, "Uh, yesterday, I guess it was. I ran into her near Lumfini Park. She was, uh, watching a snake charmer."
Louise winked at me, lowered herself on to her haunches, and made mock flute playing gestures with her hands.
"Is that so?" said Ed. "Haven't seen any of them here myself. Saw plenty in India, though. Crazy business."
I stretched comfortably and said, "Maybe. Some snake charmers really love their work, though. This one put the snake's head right in his mouth."
Louise stopped pretending to play a flute and went on to more interesting things.
"Not necessarily," I said. I was beginning, now, to enjoy talking to Ed. There is something deliriously satisfying about making small talk to a man you don't like-while at that very moment his wife is loving you thoroughly.
"No," I went on, "I suspect that this particular snake was too tired to strike-most likely the poor snake had been performing hard all day, and ouch!"
"What's wrong?" Ed wanted to know.
"Nothing," I said, glaring at Louise. "Or rather something bit me. A mosquito, I guess. Listen, Ed, I wouldn't worry about Louise. Most likely she'll be back at the hotel in time for cocktails."
I glanced questioningly at Louise. She shrugged disconsolately, then nodded. She reached over and took a sip of my stinger.
"In fact," I continued, "I wouldn't be surprised if your wife was sitting comfortably having a stinger right now."
Louise put down my drink, raised her body by flexing her knees, and then slowly lowered herself until she was sitting in just the position she wanted to be in. Which, by no coincidence, was just the position I wanted her in right then.
"I reckon you're right," said Ed. "But I just hope she doesn't put anything into her stomach that doesn't agree with her."
I managed to stifle a gasp of sheer pleasure, hurriedly agreed to meet Ed that evening for dinner, and managed to hang up on the pretext that I was late for a business appointment.
Then I turned my full, undivided attention to Louise Jesperson who, eyes blissfully closed, was moving in a spectacularly successful attempt to bring me to the boiling point.
If Ed Jesperson was the compleat tourist, Louise was that compleat tourist's wife-twenty-five years younger than her rich business-man husband, a little spoiled, and more than a little eager to sample strange fruits in strange beds.
She was a good looking woman-thirtyish. well groomed, perhaps a little brittle looking. But there was nothing brittle about her smooth-skinned, ripely curving figure. Her breasts were as firm as a teenager's-a well developed teen-ager-and in the afternoon sun slanting in through my bedroom window the bright pink of her nipples contrasted excitingly with the swan's breast white of her flesh.
I moved my hands along her soft, pliant body. She opened her eyes then, and though she was still smiling, her face was flushed with desire, her eyes glazed with the force of the mounting passion surging through her.
And then my eyes dimmed as the coaxing throbbing movement led me once again up the old familiar staircase of fire to the blinding, blazing fulfillment.
And it was over.
"But," said Louise five minutes later, as we lay cradled in each other's arms sharing a cigarette, "we'll have time for one more, won't we?"
I slapped her lightly on her bottom. "No, we will not. Your lord and master is probably pacing in a hotel lobby right now waiting for you."
Louise snuggled closer. "Let him pace. It's not your worry. Or mine, either, for that matter. Beside's you started all this when you seduced me last night."
I snorted. "All I did was stop fending you off, you little minx. And if it comes right down to it, who started the game by playing footsie with me ten minutes after I'd met you and your husband?"
Louise giggled. "I only did that after you put your hand on my knee." She giggled again, like a naughty school girl. "Poor Ed. All the time we were eating dinner he kept urging you to talk about Siamese girls, and what they had to offer-and all the time he was talking you were tickling my leg. Way up my leg." Another giggle. "How did you know I wasn't wearing any panties that night?"
I kissed the tip of her nose affectionately. "By the way your skirt clung to you. A tight skirt hides no secrets. It was right after I noticed you weren't wearing any panties that I decided to seduce you."
"At last," said Louise triumphantly, "you admit that you seduced me."
She was quite right, of course. Seducing tourist girls-and tourist wives, especially-was a hobby I'd been indulging myself in intermittently for the past three years, ever since I'd settled in Bangkok.
One of these days, of course, it would most likely get me into trouble of some sort. But what the hell, anything is likely to get you into trouble.
And if you're going to get into trouble, it might just as well be through doing something that was either pleasant or profitable. Seducing tourist wives was pleasant. The profit from the affair came from fleecing their husbands-in a discrete way, of course.
Both the fleecing and the seducing were sort of hobbies or sidelines, actually. I don't make my living that way. I'm no gigolo or con man.
Anyhow, seducing tourist wives was rather like coaxing a used car salesman to sell you a car after you'd waved your wallet in his face-you just had to look mildly interested, and they took it from there.
It's really funny, in a way, that a lot more hasn't been written about the sexual promiscuity of American wives touring abroad. Every American male who's lived overseas knows about it.
Maybe they're just keeping a good thing quiet.
Whatever the reason, the fact remains that you can seduce ten times as many American wives-with half the effort-if you live abroad than if you stayed in America.
It's true in Europe, and it's doubly true in the East For one thing, it takes a lot more money to play tourist out here than it does to take a hop over to Europe. The tourists who get as far as Thailand-or Siam, as they invariably call it, shortly before asking what became of the King and Anna-are tourists with money.
And, with a few happy exceptions, (myself being one of them), most American men don't have much money in the bank until they're fairly old.
And when you have a fairly old and rich man, you can be certain he'll have a young, good looking wife. A well-groomed, well-dressed wife (because her husband's rich) and a bored, emotionally starved wife (because her husband's old).
A happy combination. For me.
Because while most old husbands with young wives are incurably jealous and constantly alert back home, they forget about keeping an eye on their wives once the two of them set foot in exotic climes.
The reason being, naturally, that hubby is too busy secretly wondering if hell meet any hot-blooded, bare-bosomed native maidens around the place.
Like Ed, for example. The first night we'd met-I'd simply spoken English aloud to the bartender at the South Wind Hotel, and, as I'd known he would, Ed had hurried up to greet a fellow American-Ed had taken one look at the giant yellow moon hanging low in the tropical night over Bangkok, sniffed the incense and flower scented air, and had launched into a discussion of how the sultry, seductive climate was responsible for the avid sexual appetites of tropical women.
Sure.
But the old fool never thought to wonder what effect the sultry-moon and the erotic breezes were having on his young wife's appetite.
So while Ed had gazed out at the languid, sensual night I'd spent my time gazing into Louise's languid, sensual eyes. And later, when I'd accepted Ed's offer to dine with them on the dim, palm fringed terrace of the South Wind Hotel, I'd taken advantage of the concealing folds of the silk table cloth to explore the resilient, silky texture of her nearest thigh.
I'd seduced her the next morning, while Ed had been out trying to exchange dollars at the black market rate. It had all been absurdly easy-there wasn't even any danger of being surprised by Ed if he'd returned early: the boy at the desk was an old friend of mine who'd have telephoned the room if Ed had hove into view.
And once Ed had decided to take the excursion plane over to Cambodia to photograph ruins, Louise simply moved in with me for a couple of days. And nights.
It had been fun. But, I reflected as I watched Louise disconsolately don her clothes preparatory to leaving, enough was enough. Louise was beginning to get on my nerves. I'd miss her compact little backside and her eager, pouting breasts, but I'd be glad to hear the last of her spoiled, petulant voice.
When she'd buttoned her last button I rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of khaki shorts, and walked her to my front door.
"See you at dinner," I told her.
She flashed me a tooth paste ad smile and squeezed my hand. "Maybe I can talk Ed into staying on in Bangkok a few days more, Dave. I hate to-to end this so quickly."
"It'd be great if you could," I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. We embraced and, for what was undoubtedly the last time, I squeezed her.
Then she was off, clacking along the flag stone path that led through my garden to the street. I watched her departing hips writhe like two wild cats in a pillow case, then yawned and closed the door.
Sic transit another tourist tramp.
I showered, changed into a clean white linen suit and took a samlor to my office over the Scarlet Dragon.
CHAPTER TWO
The scarlet dragon dance hall is a big, barn-like place with an excellent band-the Thais are natural musicians-a well stocked bar. a good kitchen, and about thirty-five shapely hostesses.
None of the hostesses are whores. They make their living dancing with the customers ('pliss, muss buy ticket flum cashier first, hansum'), talking to the customers ('you like sit talk wis me? I sit dlink with you, twanty fife tics, wun hour'), and getting tipped by the customers ('pliss, I ver poor gurl, you ver rich man').
And, as in half a hundred similar dance halls scattered through Bangkok, there was never a lack of customers. Sailors, tourists, local residents out on a spree, men from the UN agencies, technicians from the various American economic and technical assistance projects-all visited the Scarlet Dragon night after night.
One reason being that the Scarlet Dragon had the reputation of being one of the best dance halls in Thailand.
Another being that, while not one of the shapely Thai, Chinese, Cambodian, Annamite, Japanese, Malayan or half-caste girls who worked at the Scarlet Dragon were whores-not one of them would take offense if a customer suggested a private rendezvous after one o'clock, when the Dragon closed.
The girls were even willing to leave the premises early, provided the customer was willing to pay the management seventy-five or a hundred tics for the loss of their services that evening.
Whatever profit the girls made after hours was theirs to keep-the management took no cognizance of their extra-curricular activities. This wise and benelovent policy meant that the best looking girls in Bangkok fought to work at the Scarlet Dragon.
And the best looking girls in Bangkok naturally drew the biggest spenders, who invariably spent quite a wad on the various legitimate sources of revenue at the Scarlet Dragon-food, drink, and dance tickets.
Thus a cynical observer might conclude that the management of the Scarlet Dragon was not so much benevolent as shrewd. Personally I avoided cynical conclusions of this sort for a very simple reason.
Said simple reason being that, behind a maze of dummy fronts and corporations, I was the owner and manager of the Scarlet Dragon.
The band was just tuning up when I tossed the samlor boy ten tics and strolled inside. The Chinese waiters were polishing the glass candlesticks (give the tourists food by candle light and they'll pay twice as much without batting an eye), a couple of boys were teetering on a step ladder replacing burned out light bulbs in the Chinese lanterns that illuminated the outdoor terrace, and the girls, looking like peacocks in their exotic finery, were just beginning to straggle in.
Mr. Chang, my business partner, was harranging the late-comers in Thai, a language which sounds (as one tourist put it) like two melodious cats fighting under water.
I strolled over to join the group and he broke off to mop his brow. "These girls," he complained. "Lazy, inattentive, ungrateful-I don't know why we bother with them. We should sack the whole lot and hire new ones."
He wasn't serious, of course, and the girls knew it-they went right on chattering and gossiping among themselves, paying only token attention to Mr. Chang's ravings.
The fact was, Mr. Chang (he insisted on the 'mister' title being used at all times) thoroughly enjoyed scolding and fussing over the dance hall girls. No matter how pressing other business matters might be, Mr. Chang always managed to find the time to drop into the Scarlet Dragon at least once a night and play the role of a ferociously strick chain-gang boss.
I grinned at the row of chattering girls. "Maybe you're right. I'll fire 'em all tomorrow. They're an ugly looking bunch, anyhow."
The girls broke off their chattering to tell me, in a babble of tongues, what a monster I was and how lucky Mr. Chang and I were that they permitted their fair bodies to adorn our premises.
Which, I suppose, was true enough. There wasn't one of them who wouldn't be acknowledged as a raving beauty anywhere in the world. In Bangkok, dance hall girls occupy a position of esteem only slightly below that of Thailese movie stars. The best ones have big followings of admirers who will faithfully follow them from dance hall to dance hall-and many an establishment has gone broke overnight because half-a-dozen of their 'stars' decided on a whim to quit and work somewhere else.
Conversely, I'd picked up a lot of business at other dance halls' cost in making the Scarlet Dragon an attractive place to work.
So I told the girls I'd reconsider, maybe let them off with fifty lashes each from a barbed-wire whip (if I'd so much as slapped one of them she'd have quit on the spot and taken half a dozen of her friends with her), and left amid their mock squeals of horror and dismay.
Mr. Chang followed me and closed the heavy sound proof door which insulated me from the noisy tumult below.
"I haven't seen much of you the last few days," he commented reprovingly. "If you'll permit me to say it, you have gravely neglected business affairs."
Mr Chang had learned his English in Hong Kong and spoke with a marked British accent.
"Knock it off, Mr. Chang," I told him. "You can run things with one hand tied behind you. Anyway, things have been slow lately. I just took a few days off to relax."
Mr. Chang grinned. "Was she pretty? And talented?"
"She was pretty. And very talented. Too bad she isn't a professional. We could use her in the Jade Grotto."
Mr. Chang grinned wolfishly. The Scarlet Dragon might be his favorite of our enterprises,, but the Jade Grotto ran a close second.
"It is true we were short of girls there," he admitted. "But yesterday I took the liberty of hiring three new recruits. Country girls from the North."
I nodded. "Pretty?"
"Two are exquisite. The third is not so exquisite, but very, very talented."
I made a mental note to drop in to the Jade Grotto soon. When Mr. Chang said a girl was talented in bed she must really have something.
I leafed through the accumulated mail on my desk, saw nothing of pressing importance, and shoved the pile of correspondence aside to wait until the next day.
Then I sat back and waited for Mr. Chang to say what was on his mind. Because, from the way he stood shuffling his feet, something obviously was troubling him.
"Out with it," I said. "What's the bad news?"
Mr. Chang produced a long envelope from his coat. "Kam Nulok dropped this by earlier this evening. He said he went to great pains to Steal a copy. You had better read it."
I nodded. Kam Nulok was a clerk in the Bangkok police department-our informer, to be exact.
I unfolded the document Mr. Chang had given me. It was a copy of a confidential police report, and signed by Captain Alchai. I mixed myself a stinger, then sat back to read it through.
Date: 3 August 1961
To: Inspector Tonkin
From: Captain Alchai
Subject: David (Dave) Owen, alias Singapore Owen, alias Malay Dave.
I grinned to myself. I hadn't been called Malay Dave in years. Alchai must really have dug back to find that one. After a bunch of flowery Thai compliments (obligatory even in official documents) the report got down to business.
Further to our oral discussion of David Owen, it is my conclusion that, as of the moment, there exists insufficient evidence for us to initiate deportation proceedings.
Mr. Owen's business connections are extremely difficult to trace-
That was comforting to hear.
-but the following may safely be assumed to be correct, even though legal evidence is often not available. Mr. Owen, in conjunction with Mr. Chang (see file No. 845-I) owns and operates the Scarlet Dragon Dance Hall, the Sunny Valley Appliance Market (suspected of being a front for small arms and munitions dealings), the Jade Grotto (an excellent and well run brothel)-
Thanks for the compliment, I thought.
-and three Chinese restaurants plus a bar now called the Yankee Clipper-the last jour apparently legitimate enterprises.
They were.
All of these properties are ostensibly owned by the All-Thai Patriotic and Anti-imperialistic Business Cooperative, a company which apparently is wholly owned by Mr. Owen.
Not true. Chang owned ten per cent.
In addition, there is strong reason to believe that Mr. Owen owns partly or in full the Yellow Pagoda (a brothel in Chiang Mai), the Happy Land (bar and restaurant in Khorat), the Lotus Garden (dance hall and liar in Khorat) and the Highly Patriotic Anti-American People's Bar near Bangkok waterfront.
This last establishment, apparently planned and named entirely by Mr. Owen, has frankly puzzled this department considerably since Mr. Owen is an American citizen, of course.
Mr. I., the official Bangkok representative of the C.I.A., has informed me heatedly that Mr. Owen does not work for his estimable organization, and that, further, he'd cut his throat before hiring him.
As Mr. Owen has no apparent Communist sympathies, I have come to the conclusion that this bar-in which our local Communists spend a great deal of time (and money) was named The Anti-American People's Bar in a spirit of tongue-in-cheek jest.
There is further evidence that Mr. Owen engages from time to time in various smuggling operations. Because Bangkok is used only as a base of operations-the actual smuggling being between Burma and the
Indonesian Republic-perhaps too little attention has been paid by this department to his activity of Mr Owen's. More diligent study will be given to this matter.
There is no hard evidence that Mr. Owen profits by the sale or transport of narcotics.
CONCLUSION: Mr. Owen is an extremely enterprising young man whose talents, unfortunately, seem directed toward quasi-legal business enterprises. Should his activities prove in the future to be definitely detrimental to the welfare of the Kingdom, steps should be taken to deport him at once, or as soon as practical.
I dropped the report on my desk and got up to mix another stinger.
"What do you think?" Mr. Chang asked.
"I think Captain Alchai is warning me-us-to watch our step." I tapped the report. "There's nothing new in here-in fact, the report isn't even up to date. I changed the name of the Lotus Garden to Garden of the Moon two months ago. No, the report's a phony."
"A phony?"
I nodded. "It was written up for my benefit. And I suspect Kam Nulok was given every opportunity to steal a copy. This is just Captain Alchai's subtle way of telling me his patience is wearing thin."
"Ah," said Mr. Chang. "Then we are not in danger of being put out of business?"
"No. But I think it might be healthy if we concentrated on legitimate enterprises for a while. At least until the heat's off. How about the Sunny Valley Appliance Market-any rifles still on the premises?"
Mr. Chang shook his head. "The last were shipped to Celebes this week."
"Good. No more arms trading for a while. No more opium transport, either. For the next few months we'll just have to roll up our sleeves and concentrate on making an honest dollar."
Mr. Chang looked crestfallen. "There is so little profit in honesty."
"True. We'll just have to grin and bear it, though."
"How about the brothels?"
"They're honestly run. Nothing to worry about there. If they ever tried to close all the brothels in Siam the whole economy would collapse."
Mr. Chang nodded agreement and, after we'd discussed and settled to our mutual satisfaction a few minor business problems, padded silently out of my office.
I glanced at my watch. Almost time to meet Ed and Louise Jesperson for dinner. I grinned to myself. I'd meant it when I'd told Mr. Chang that for the next few months we'd do best to concentrate on making money legitimately.
But I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't finish up any business deal I was already working on-I'd invested quite a bit of time in cultivating Ed Jesperson. and I intended to make my investment pay off.
Seducing his wife had been entertaining, but what I wanted from Ed Jesperson wasn't the use of his wife but something more lasting, more satisfying.
Namely money.
CHAPTER THREE
The Tiger Lily knew her business. She was sitting a few tables away sipping mekong-a golden liquid with the kick of mountain moonshine-and, in a lady-like manner, giving Ed Jesperson the eye.
"What did you say she's called?" Ed whispered, leaning towards me.
"The Tiger Lily. Dance hall girls in Bangkok go in for fancy titles. Sometimes even old friends don't know their real names."
I pointed at a crowd of chattering girls about twenty feet away. "Over there, for example, is the Jungle Cat, Moon Blossom-the Chinese girl-Lotus Bud, Queen Cobra and the Sun Lady."
"Yeah, yeah," Ed muttered. "Very interesting. But tell me more about this Tiger Lily chick. You say none of the girls here are whores?"
I shook my head. "Strictly working girls here. High paid hostesses and dance partners."
"Umm," said Ed. "Sort of like Geisha girls, huh?"
"Sort of. But better paid. Of course," I added, "like all girls everywhere, I guess they let themselves be seduced from time to time. But with girls like the Tiger Lily, it's strictly for love-it would be a mortal insult to her if she invited you to bed and you offered her money afterwards."
That was a laugh. The Tiger Lily snapped at money like a starving crocodile. But it was true enough she wouldn't ask Ed for any-for the simple reason I'd already paid her handsomely for giving Ed whatever he wanted.
We were sitting, Ed and I, at a secluded table in the Scarlet Dragon. Dinner at the hotel had been a bore, what with Ed yakking continuously about his trip to Angkor Wat and the various other sights he and Louise had seen in their world tour, and Louise giving me the eye every time Ed paused for breath.
I'd finally broken up the party by suggesting to Ed that he might like to see some of the ocean going ships being unloaded by floodlight at the docks lining the Chao Phraya River. This with a heavy handed wink when Louise wasn't looking.
Ed's face had lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler. He figured he was in for a night on the town. And he was dead right.
Louise had sulkily disclaimed any interest in the Bangkok waterfront, and after a brief spat between her and Ed-and a cold glare in my direction-she'd retired to their hotel suite to read.
Well, the hell with her. She'd been fun in bed, but I didn't see any reason to humor her-not when getting Ed alone for a few hours meant money in the bank for me.
So here we were at the Scarlet Dragon, with Ed flattered silly because an exotic Thai maiden was giving him the eye.
"If you'd like to meet her," I said, "I'll call her over. She'll sit and talk to us for an hour for twenty-five ticals." I raised my hand and gestured to Tiger Lily, while Ed made feeble and insincere protests.
The Tiger Lily smiled, rose, and sauntered over.
"Hallo," she said, keeping her sultry-eyes fixed on Ed-as per instructions, "you like talk wiss me?"
Ed turned bright red with pleasure and embarrassment. In a way I didn't blame him. Tiger Lily was quite a dish. A lot of Thai girls go in for western clothes-skirts and blouses-but while working Tiger Lily stuck to the traditional loose fitting sarong.
At least, Thai sarongs are usually loose fitting. The one Tiger Lily was wearing tonight was made of bright yellow silk, thin silk, and it clung to her every contour as if her body had been dipped in glue.
And she had some body for it to cling to. The Thais, for the most part, are a small, slender race-Thai girls often run to slim hips and modest bosoms. The Tiger Lily was an exception.
Her hips were as flaring as a pair of drawn bows, and her breasts jutted out in front of her body like the twin prow of a catamaran. When she lowered herself into a chair next to Ed they quivered like giant, ripe tropical fruit ready for the plucking.
Ed licked his lips and asked if he could buy her a drink.
The Tiger Lily beamed, showing white, even teeth. "I luff to have dlink wit you," she cooed. Then she looked crestfallen and (she was a good actress) a little embarrassed. "Muss ask you to pay twanty-five tics because I sit along you. Iss rule of house." She avoided my eye and added, "Owner of Scarlet Dlagon very, very mean man-make gurls wuk very hard."
Ed practically broke his arm reaching for his wallet. I got up and told Ed I guessed I'd buy myself a dance. He hardly noticed me leave.
I strolled over and began dancing with Tokyo Flower, a seductively plump little Japanese girl who, until she'd graduated to the Scarlet Dragon, had been one of the star attractions at the Jade Grotto.
The band was playing an old, slow fox trot that had been popular in the States ten years ago, and Tokyo Flower cuddled close in my arms as we danced.
"You selling the Scarlet Dragon again?" she asked, her eyes twinkling. "It's getting so we poor girls don't know our boss from one day to the next."
"You," I said, "know too much. And quit talking such good English. All the girls here are supposed to speak quaint broken English. House Rule Number Seven."
"Ah, so," agreed Tokyo Flower. "Me young Jap girl, much dumb, all time forget me no speak English good. How much are you going to hit this sucker for?"
I slid a hand inside the bulging front of her kimona and tweaked one of her plump, rounded breasts. "I think he ought to be good for about twenty thousand," I said. "He's got plenty of loot. I cabled the States for a credit check on him three days ago."
I glanced over at the table where I'd left him. Tiger Lily was leaning forward to look soulfully into his eyes-and give him a clear view of the way her golden yellow breasts strained to be loose from the confining sarong. Ed had a dazed, asinine look on his face. He was hooked all right.
Selling the Scarlet Dragon was an almost totally foolproof stunt I'd hit upon almost by accident a couple of years before. A rich Englishman off a cruise ship had confided to me that it had always been his ambition to own a tropical dive. He'd then gone on to ask me if I knew anything about a place called the Scarlet Dragon, which he'd heard was for sale.
I'd been about to tell him it certainly wasn't for sale, and that I was in the best position to know since I was the owner.
But instead I'd had an inspiration. Yes, I'd told him, I had heard that the place was for sale-asking price five thousand pounds.
What was more. I'd added casually, the place was most likely a good investment, too. Probably made about five hundred pounds a month profit.
An hour later, as a favor I'd escorted him to the Scarlet Dragon-where I'd explained (in Cantonese) to the startled Mr Chang that he was to sell the Englishman a fake deed to the joint for five thousand pounds.
The Englishman had bought it the same night, after I'd agreed to look in on the place from time to time to protect his interests in exchange for five per cent of the profits.
Then the Englishman had boarded his cruise ship and departed.
For a couple of months after that I'd mailed a five hundred pound bank draft to the Englishman's bank in London. The third month I'd cabled him (collect) that the Scarlet Dragon had been raided by the police and, because opium had been found on the premises, closed for good.
I'd followed this with a letter explaining that, because I had been-indirectly-responsible for his losing his money, I would personally undertake to pay him back what he'd lost, even if it took me ten years.
Naturally he'd refused my kind offer, sadly reflected that it was just one of those things, and urged me to look him up if I ever passed through London.
Net profit to me: four thousand pounds.
After that I'd developed the practice of selling the Scarlet Dragon to the point where it had become almost an art. I'd even devoted a little time to figuring out the pyschology of why so many otherwise shrewd businessmen fell for an obvious racket like this.
The answer, I decided, was glamor. Good old fashioned lure-of-the-mysterious-East glamor. Plus a little vicarious sin thrown in.
A businessman who, in his native New York or Detroit or London or Bonn, wouldn't dream of investing in a business he hadn't personally inventoried and checked from top to bottom, threw away his business sense when confronted with an exotic tropical dance hall.
For a measly few thousand dollars, or pounds or marks or francs, he could boast about his Far East investments while chained to his desk in the city.
Also, a return of ten per cent a month made the whole deal seem highly profitable.
But mostly it was the sin and glamor of the thing that got them. The idea of owning, actually owning a dance hall in exotic Bangkok was what sold them. It was like owning a vicarious harem. And, of course, they'd always kid themselves that from time to time they'd go back to Siam to check on their business, even if they knew in their heart of hearts that they wouldn't.
And it was completely safe from my standpoint. Even if some of the suckers should prove angry enough to fly out to Bangkok to investigate their "loss" (and none had to date), I was still safe.
I wasn't connected with the deal in any way, Chang could lie low for a while, and the Scarlet Dragon would simply shutter for a few nights-or else merely undergo a change of name.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Tiger Lily slip away from Ed's table, so I patted Tokyo Flower on the rump, excused myself, and strolled back.
"What happened to Tiger Lily?" I inquired.
Ed looked sheepish. "She's-she's gone to tell the manager she's leaving early." He winked. "A sick friend."
I whistled. "You mean to tell me you've made a conquest? Don't you know half the men in Bangkok have tried to get the Tiger Lily in bed-and failed?
Man, what have you got that I need? I made a discreet pass at her last month and she slapped my face."
Ed tried to look nonchalant, but only succeeded in looking even more smug and pleased with himself. "She, uh, says I'm the most virile man she's ever met." He thumped his chest experimentally. "Guess I'm still in pretty good shape at that."
Yeah, shapliest pot belly in the joint.
"Say, Dave," Ed went on. "You remember you were telling me earlier that this place was for sale?"
I nodded. "A good buy, too. I'd snap it up myself if I hadn't sunk all my cash into my export-import business." I pretended to do a double-take. "Don't tell me you're interested in-"
"Just thinking about it," Ed put in hastily. "Strictly as a business venture, of course. After all, if this place really returns ten per cent a month...."
I shrugged. "Okay. It's your funeral. I'll see if I can spot the manager. Mr. Ching or something, I think it is. No, Chang." I lowered my voice. "As I told you, the reason the owner wants to sell out at such a low price is the stupid fool got mixed up in some deal concerning opium. He's had a tip the police are going to pick him up in a few days-he's getting ready to clear out fast. But whatever you do, don't let on you know he's in a spot. I just happened to hear about it by accident."
Ed assured me he'd be discreet, and I left to hunt up Mr. Chang.
"He's all yours, Mr. Chang," I said cheerfully a minute later. "You know what to do."
Mr. Chang grinned happily. "Righto. Start at twenty-five thousand, let him beat me down to twenty. Then tell him to come back in a few hours and I'll have the deed ready."
"Right. And when he comes back, hell still be walking in circles and looking dreamy-eyed. Thanks to a few hours with the Tiger Lily in the privacy of her bed."
Mr. Chang nodded. "It is what you Americans call 'the softening up' process, yes?" He trotted off in the direction of Ed's table, still chuckling over his joke.
I ordered a stinger at the bar-one of the great things about owning a dance hall is you can order all the free liquor you want-and thought about how I wanted to spend the rest of the evening.
Because Ed wasn't the only one who could use some softening up right then. Quite a few hours had elapsed since Louise and I had played cork the bottle, and I was beginning to feel pleasantly primed again.
There were several choices open to me. I could take a samlor back to the South Wind Hotel, and entertain Louise while the Tiger Lily entertained Ed.
Or I could wait until the Tiger Lily had completed her task for the evening, and let her do a repeat performance on me.
But I'd had enough of Louise for a while-and I didn't feel like standing around waiting for the Tiger Lily.
So, after downing another stinger, I flagged down a samlor and ordered the boy to pedal to the Jade Grotto. After all, there's no fun in owning a bar if you don't help yourself to free drinks.
And there's no sense in owning the best brothel in Bangkok if you don't make use of it.
And, above all things, I'm a sensible man.
CHAPTER FOUR
Imagine yourself lying on a giant tiger skin rug, spread over soft, scented jungle ferns. Imagine a pool of cool, crystal clear water fed by a gurgling spring. Picture a dim jungle grotto where cool breezes offer blissful respite from the tropic heat.
Then imagine a golden skinned Thai maiden reclining beside you, her pouting, youthful breasts bared to your touch, her sleek thighs invitingly naked, her torso a nude symphony of curves, her eyes provocatively inviting....
Or, if you happen to be in Bangkok, don't bother imagining all this-come to the Jade Grotto where, for a modest sum, all this can be yours to enjoy.
Tell the samlor boy to take you to the Street of the Four Winds-or more simple, just say "Jade Grotto, dithoi!" All the samlor boys know the Jade Grotto. Though only the oldest and most experienced knew the joint when it was called Mama Jade's-the title before I bought and renovated the place.
The samlor will drop you before a dim, flower tree-shaded alleyway where the gate is always invitingly open. Walk out twenty feet and you'll come to a bamboo door, also open.
Once inside it's as if you've stepped into Aladdin's cave. The heavy, humid air of Bangkok has suddenly been replaced by refreshing cool breezes (thanks to a cellar jammed with surplus air conditioning equipment, and the fact that electricity is dirt cheap in Bangkok for some reason).
A dainty Japanese girl will greet you with a dimpled smile and permit you to make a modest contribution to the house (modest is a relative word, chum-don't come unless you're loaded with cash).
Said dainty Japanese maiden will then ask you your pleasure. Tell her. Don't be bashful. She'll not only understand, she'll undoubtedly be able to arrange just what you have in mind. With some exceptions-sadists and masochists find things more to their liking at the (aptly named) Bucket O' Blood, a brothel in which I have no interest, financial or otherwise.
If you don't have anything particular in mind, the Japanese maiden (there are actually three of them working eight hour shifts, but they dress and look alike) will suggest that you peruse a leather bound book of photographs.
Said photographs (urrretouched) will enable you to quickly estimate the relative charms of the girls the Jade Grotto has to offer.
No waiting, either. If a girl isn't on duty that night, or is entertaining another customer, her photograph is temporarily removed from the loose leaf book. If you see a girl in the book, you can be certain of seeing-and feeling-her in the flesh within minutes.
After you've selected the girl-or girls-you would like to dally with, the Japanese maiden (after exclaiming at your good taste and judgment will shyly escort you through what appear to be tunnels hewn through solid rock (plaster of paris carefully painted, actually) until you reach a bamboo beaded curtain.
Here the Japanese maiden stops and indicates that you must continue the journey yourself.By all means do. You won't have far to go. Once you push through the beaded curtain you'll find yourself in a cozy grotto, complete with cool pool and torrid maiden.
The torrid maiden (or maidens) will quickly make you feel at home. Believe me.
All this hocus pocus had cost me an unbelievably small amount of money to construct and organize and enable me to charge about twice the going rate for any other brothel in town.
The caliber of the girls helped, too. By choosing only the finest, youngest, juiciest prostitutes available (and in Bangkok there are plenty available) Mr. Chang and I had built an unequalled reputation for the Jade Grotto.
I understand it's even mentioned in some recent guide books-and I know for a fact that most of the large English and American companies with offices in Bangkok use its services almost exclusively when it comes to buttering up out-of-town clients. (Business practices in Bangkok don't differ in that respect from similar practices in New York or London.)
All in all, I felt justly proud of the Jade Grotto-quite aside from all the money it made me.
Which leads me to a subject which I should perhaps have touched on before. Namely, how can any American admit to owning and profiting by a brothel-and not feel like a lecherous monster?
There are two answers to that. First, you must realize that prostitution in the Far East is not regarded as being the sinful affair it is considered in the States. If a girl can pleasantly make ten times what she would make working in a factory-or a hundred times what she would have if she'd stayed on the old rice farm-then more power to her, say the Siamese.
The Siamese, be it noted, are not called the Frenchmen of the Orient for no reason, In the Spring a Thai's thoughts turn lightly but persistently to thoughts of sex. And in Thailand, happy country, it is always Spring.
Many tourists leave Siam with the idea that Siamese men are health fanatics. As proof they note that, whenever you get two or more male Thais together-whether to talk business or enjoy a meal-sooner or later one of them suggests that it might be a fine idea to take a walk.
The suggestion is always greeted with enthusiasm by all other Thai males present.
If you haven't by this time figured out the idiomatic meaning of the Thai phrase 'take a walk' you might as well stop reading right now.
Still with me? Fine. Well, to continue. Confronted with the fact that brothels are a fine, integral part of Siamese life, what was I to do? Launch a one-man crusade designed to throw shapely girls out of work and libidinous men out of sorts? Of course not.
I took the all-American attitude: how can I, with my Yankee ingenuity, improve upon the existing state of affairs?
And, with the Jade Grotto (The Best by Test in Bangkok), the Yellow Pagoda (The Pride of Chiang Mai), and a number of lesser establishments (which had apparently escaped Captain Alchai's notice) I had triumphantly proved the efficiency of American imagination and know-how.
That's one answer.The other answer to the question as to whether owning several profitable brothels doesn't make me feel like a lecherous monster is yes, it certainly does-and I enjoy feeling like a lecherous monster.
So here I was. Relaxing on a tiger skin owned by me, in a fancy brothel owned by me, recovering rapidly from the effects of being worked on by a golden skinned maiden in my employ.
She was one of the three new girls hired the day before by Mr. Chang. And rightfully so. Everything Mr. Chang had said about the three girls was absolutely correct. The only possible point where he might have been untruthful was when he'd described two of the girls as being beautiful and talented, and the third as being not so beautiful but extremely talented.
In my opinion they all three were extremely beautiful and staggeringly talented. In fact, the only reason I wasn't staggering at the moment was that I was lving down. Because all three had been anxious to show me not only their charms but their talents. In action.
And, easy going fellow that I am, I hadn't had the heart to say no. (And if anyone wants to know whether three torrid, shapely girls making love to you simultaneously aren't two too many-I decline to answer the question for various reasons.)
That had been a couple of hours ago, though. And now only one torrid, naked maiden lay by my side, the others having been sent about their business. After all, I didn't want to corner the market in prostitutes. I had to think of the welfare of others.
On the other hand, I had to think of my welfare too, from time to time. So, lying comfortably on the tiger skin, one hand cradled over my companion's deliriously soft rump, I thought about my welfare.
Specifically, I wracked my brains trying to think of some legitimate and profitable enterprise I could indulge in for a few months, something that would convince Captain Alchai that I was turning my talents to honest business.
The brothels and the Scarlet Dragon Dance Hall were honest enterprises, all right-but they were rather too close to the fringe for comfort. The restaurants I owned were legitimate, too, but they were small potatoes. I'd won them in a game of poker from a wealthy Chinese investor, and hung on to them on the theory that if I ever went broke at least I could eat free.
No: what I needed was something with-I groped for the right word-something with status. That let out expanding the Sunny Valley Appliance Market. Without the rifles as a sideline, the store was just a two-bit vacuum cleaner and toaster shop, not worthy of my attention.
I considered backing Loco Harry, only to reject the notion. Loco Harry was an ex-Canadian bush pilot who owned and operated an old DC-3 on a charter basis. Harry had several times asked me to stake him to a couple of new planes on a partnership basis, so he could set up scheduled flights and give Thai Airlines some competition.
I could afford to buy a couple of twin engine planes-but could I afford to tie up with Loco Harry? I decided not. Harry had not, in the past, been too particular about the cargo he carried. "Opium doesn't weigh much" was one of his favorite slogans.
It wasn't his morals I objected to, it was his habit of boasting of his exploits. If I backed Loco Harry, Captain Alchai would start checking all flights for smuggled narcotics. And knowing Harry, sooner or later he'd find some.
I could concentrate on the import-export business, of course. I still owned the David Owen Import-Export Agency, though it had been so long since I'd imported or exported anything (anything legal, that is) that Alchai hadn't even bothered to mention the business in his report.
But doing that meant a lot of tedious, time consuming letter writing and contact making. And the thought of sweating over a hot desk trying to arrange for the import of a bunch of canned fruit or a crate of mousetraps didn't appeal to me one bit.
I could prospect for minerals and oil.
Except I didn't know anything about minerals or oil.
And didn't care to learn.
I could go into the rubber business.
Except that the rubber business was in bad shape right now, now that the Malayan plantations were back to normal.
I could dabble in the teak market.
Except that the idea of owning a teak forest didn't appeal to me.
I sighed. Nothing seemed to appeal to me just then. Nothing, that is, connected with business. Honest business.
Dol Chai the golden rumped maiden on whose backside my hand was resting, looked up when I sighed.
"Is the ever-lasting one displeased?" she asked in Thai. She spoke broken, halting English, but since I spoke Thai better than she spoke my native tongue we had conversed in her language. Though for the most part we'd used body Thai, which is something like body English but more passionate.
"You flatter me beyond human endurance," I told her. "Truly I am not ever-lasting. Though I guess I do have more staying power than most, if you'll pardon the boast."
The rhyme was more adroit in Thai than it sounds in English, and Dol Chai smiled. The Thai are greatly flattered if any European takes the trouble to learn even a little of their language-and if someone speaks it fluently (as I did, thanks to a natural flair for languages that I can't take credit for), they can't do enough for you.
Not that Dol Chai hadn't done plenty for me already. But there was no harm in letting her do a little more, if it made her happy.
So I rolled over on my back and let Dol Chai amuse herself by re-kindling the flame, to use a local phrase. Which she promptly set about doing.
She began by caressing my body with her hair.
That doesn't sound very exciting. At least, not to those who haven't been initiated into the slow, almost ritualized love-making of the East. I had been, and as far as I'm concerned it beats the tea ceremony hands down.
To repeat, she began by caressing me with her hair.
"Your hair is blacker than the eye of midnight," I told her, echoing an old Thai poem. "More soft than the wings of moths, as sweetly flowering as the Summer rain, longer than the arm of a mighty warrior."
That was poetic exaggeration, actually. Her hair fell only a few inches below her waist-she must have had it cut before she came to Bangkok.
Dol Chai only smiled, a secret smile full of promise (an obligatory gesture in Thai love-making, and not an empty one, either), and went on caressing me with her hair.
I closed my eyes and enjoyed the soft pleasure of feeling the silken threads of her long hair sweep slowly over my bare chest, my bare legs. And so forth.
Then I felt a warmer, firmer caress and opened my eyes. Dol Chai was caressing me with the tips of her nipples, kneeling low over me and moving her chest sinuously so that her erect, red-brown nipples traced tiny circles over my body.
Then she bent lower, and the soft flesh of her firmly rounded breasts glided over my skin. She caressed my chest, and my legs. And so on.
"How soft are the breasts of the maiden of my choice," I murmured softly in Thai. "How like the touch of dew her moving lips, how sweetly strong the thrust of her tongue, how-he, hold it honey!"
"Hold what, ever-lasting one?" inquired Dol Chai.
"Never mind," I said. "The fire's kindled. Roll over."
And over she rolled. And on to her rolled I. For the time being I didn't have the patience for any slow, ritualistic love making of the East. Dol Chai was a little startled at first, but she caught on soon enough and began to swing her hips.
Her soft thighs encased me and her arms pulled me down to pillow my chest against the pneumatic resiliency o.I her breasts, and our bodies meshed with ever growing frenzy.
"Merciful Bhudda," gasped Dol Chai. "I have heard much of the impetuousness of Americans ... But never did I dream...." She smiled broadly, an un-Oriental, un-secret smile. "Impetuous, but effective. Why do they not show scenes of Americans making love in American movies? It would do much to win friends for-what is the matter?"
"Not a thing, honey," I said. "You just gave me an idea, that's all. I've just thought of something I can do to kill time in an honest way. I'll become a movie producer."
Dol Chai stared at me open mouthed. "I fear," she said nervously, "that the fever of your love-making has made you a little mad."
She was more right than she knew.
CHAPTER FIVE
After a quick shower and a farewell embrace from Dol Chai I hailed a samlor and told the boy to take me to the Scarlet Dragon. Then I settled back in my seat to enjoy the many-scented night air and, while the samlor boy pedalled dexterously through the narrow, brightly lit alleys of Bangkok, I meditated on J. B. Weber.
J. B. ("Call me Jaybee, all my friends do") Weber was, or claimed to be, a Hollywood producer. My own guess was that he'd probably been no more than a talent agent or assistant producer back in California.
No matter. If brash self-assurance and incurable optimum were what it took to make a producer (and Jaybee assured me they were all that was required), then he had the makings of a producer.
What had brought him to Bangkok, where he'd been for the past two weeks, was a curious and (as he told it) somewhat tangled chain of events.
Discarding the more obvious lies and fabrications, and filling in the most likely missing links, his saga went briefly as follows:
While temporarily unemployed (in Jaybee's words, "between pictures, taking a vacation"), he had heard more or less by accident that the International Geographic Society had been approached by the Government of Thailand with the suggestion that they-the Geographic Society-make a motion picture study of Thailand.
Object: to attract tourists.
The Thai Government was willing to kick in a little money and offer all possible assistance The Geographic Society was willing to kick in an even smaller amount of money, and lend the project the dignity of their name.
Enter Jaybee Weber. Give me the collected money, said Jaybee. and I will go to Thailand and shoot this movie. Documentaries, added Weber, are my specialty. Furthermore, I know Siam intimately from having spent several years there as a guerilla fighter during World War II.
How Weber, who at that time knew so little about Thailand that he pronounced it "thigh-land" instead of "tie-land", ever convinced the Geographic Society that he was an expert in Far Eastern matters, I shall never know.
But convince them he did. He must have, since they gave him the money.
After that Jaybee scurried around to a couple of companies in the business of making commercial travelogues-the kind that always end with the sun sinking into the Pacific.
Armed with his credentials from the Thai Embassy and the Geographic Society, Jaybee convinced them he really was going to Siam, and hence would be in a position to shoot a travel movie for them-in addition to his Geographic chore.
Both companies gave him a handsome sum to cover expenses.
At this point Jaybee had been paid for making three separate travelogues/documentaries about Siam, the sponsors of each not knowing about the other two.
And Jaybee really intended to make them. Not only that, he also intended to make a full length feature movie of his own.
But to do this he needed more capital than he had. Even if he sunk all the monies he'd collected into making his own movie, it still wouldn't be enough.
Part of this he raised by the ingenious method of talking a private foundation into sending him, as a technical expert on motion picture making, to Siam to render technical assistance to the struggling Siamese motion picture industry.
Of course the Siamese, who turn out a large number of movies for home consumption every year, needed Jaybee like a case of yaws.
But the foundation didn't know this, and offered to stake Jaybee to the extent of giving him enough money for his ticket plus a handsome sum for living expenses.
Two other foundations had fallen for the same story.
By the time he had pulled off these deals, Jaybee estimated he needed only about twenty-five thousand dollars to make his movie.
This amount he was able to persuade a Hollywood bank to lend him. And, bursting with confidence and full of plans. Jaybee had flown out to Bangkok.
There his admirable scheme began to leak a little at the seams. Specifically, the bank somehow discovered that Jaybee was playing fast and loose with other people's money, and cabled their Bangkok branch not to honor Jaybee's bank draft.
All of which had left Jaybee in Bangkok with enough money to start his movie, but twenty-five thousand dollars less than he needed to finish it.
I'd learned all this the previous week, when Jaybee-who had been systematically trying to borrow money from everyone he met-had told me his sad plight and urged me to back him.
At the time I'd turned hfm down cord. I could easily spare twenty-five grand, of course. But Jaybee was a bit too sharp an operator for comfort. I'd been dubious about my chances of getting repaid, let alone making a profit.
Now, however, with pressure on me to at least make a show of being an honest investor, it might be an idea to reconsider.
It was close to midnight when the salmor dropped me in front of the Scarlet Dragon, and the place was packed. I could actually have kept the place running profitably until the small hours of the morning.
But too many bars in Bangkok close around twelve or one, and keeping the Scarlet Dragon open late would only get me the fall-out from rival bars. People who'd already gotten drunk (and spent most of their money) elsewhere, and would only make a nuisance of themselves at the Scarlet Dragon.
I pushed my way through the crowded dance floor until I spotted Mr. Chang, sitting by himself at a table on the veranda. I walked over and joined him.
"Ah," he said, smiling cheerfully. "Are the new girls not pretty? And talented?"
"They are," I said. There was no point asking Mr. Chang how he knew I'd spent the evening at the Jade Grotto. He had an uncanny knack of knowing what was happening all over Bangkok. "What about Ed Jesperson? Did he buy the place?"
Mr. Chang nodded. "He did indeed. A shrewd business man, Mr.. Jesperson. I begged and pleaded, but he wouldn't pay more than twenty thousand." He produced a check from his coat pocket and held it out for my inspection.
I glanced at it briefly. It seemed in order, and was made out payable to a Mr. Lee Ho, one of the many names under which Mr. Chang and I had bank accounts.
"Good. I take it you were Lee Ho for the evening?"
"No, I was myself-Mr. Chang, the manager. Lee Ho was impersonated by one of the waiters-a fellow with a naturally nervous look, one well suited to a man about to leave the country."
I was pleased. Mr. Chang, as usual, had done a nice neat job. In the remote event that Ed Jesperson should ever try to make trouble later, he'd have nothing more to go on than a brief glance at a mythical Lee Ho.
"It is," reflected Mr. Chang philosophically, "almost un-sporting to take money from fools such as Ed Jesperson."
"Well," I told him, "we can always give it back, if it makes you feel bad to keep it."
"No, no! That would be even more un-sporting. For us, that is. Anyway, fools deserve to be parted from their money."
"While we're on the subject," I remarked, "what would you say to my foolishly parting with twenty five thousand dollars-and backing Jaybee Weber's movie?"
Mr. Chang frowned. "A poor risk."
"Maybe. But an honest, legal risk."
"Ah," said Mr. Chang thoughtfully. "There is much truth to that. Backing a motion picture is exactly the kind of thing Captain Alchai would expect a man of your-your restless enterprise to engage in. It would certainly convince him that you thirst more for excitement and adventure than for illegal profits. And," he added, "it should not prove too dull a way to lose money."
"Don't be so pessimistic. Jaybee may be a sharp operator, but with our combined talents it's just possible we might end up fleecing him. Think of it as a-a challenge."
Mr. Chang banged his fist on the table. "You're right! For too long we have been fleecing sheep. It is time we locked horns with a-a predator like Jaybee Weber."
CHAPTER SIX
As it turned out, J. B. (call me Jaybee) Weber al-ready had a title for his movie. He was calling it RIVER OF LUST.
He explained as much to me the next morning, after I had accepted his eager invitation to drop around to his hotel suite and listen to his sales pitch.
He had, he claimed, about fifty thousand dollars. And with my twenty-five thousand he would have enough to shoot and edit his movie. Distribution and advertising costs would, of course, be paid by whatever distributing company was chosen to release the movie.
I don't know beans about movie making, but even so the figure of seventy-five thousand seemed ridiculously low for a full-length movie, even a B movie, and I told Jaybee as much.
He puffed a cloud of blue cigar smoke in my direction and nodded agreement. "Generally speaking, you're right. But I can make a movie-and a damn good one-for seventy-five gees. How? I'll tell you."
I sat back and studied Jaybee while he talked. He was a chubby, moon-faced little man-in his mid forties, at a guess-with all the nervous perpetual animation of a hyper-thyroid.
Up to that point he strongly resembled a cliche stereotype of a typical small time Hollywood producer. The only incongruous thing about him was his thinning red hair, and a curious, straggly looking red beard.
The beard made him look more like an odd-ball Zen enthusiast or a jazz musician than anything else. On the other hand, maybe straggly beards are in fash-in in Hollywood right now. I wouldn't know; my stereotype ideas about how a Hollywood producer should look were formed some years back. Tt's been a while since I've been in the States.
"In the first place," said Jaybee, holding aloft one finger. "I'm an expert when it comes to taking short cuts and trimming costs. Even in H'wood I could always bring in a picture for peanuts.
He raised a second finger. "Next, you gotta understand what makes movies cost so much to make. What you ask? I'll tell you. Big stars. High studio overhead. Labor unions. That's what. That's why half the films Hollywood turned out last year were shot abroad."
"Now," he went on, "I'm going to shoot most of my movie outdoors. No sets to build. I'm going to hire local camera men and technicians. Non-union labor. And I'm going to make do without big stars. With one exception. One great, block-busting exception."
He paused dramatically, apparently waiting for me to beg for an explanation. I didn't, but after a moment's silence he offered one anyway.
"Who is the big star who-because of her friendship to me, her admiration for my talent-is willing to work for nothing down and a percentage of the pic?" He bounded to his feet.
"Carlotta Ernst, that's who!"
I stared blankly at him. "Who's she?"
Jaybee seemed to collapse like a leaky inner tube. "You're kidding. You don't know her? She's great, man, great. A big star. World famous."
I shook my head. "Never heard of her. But I guess that doesn't prove anything-I never was much of a movie fan, and out here we don't get many new movies."
Jaybee brooded for a while. My failure to register wild surprise and ecstatic glee at the mention of Carlotta Ernst's name had obviously depressed him.
It took him all of thirty seconds to recover his enthusiasm. Then he launched into a detailed and (to me) uninteresting explanation of the technical facilities available to him in Bangkok.
I didn't doubt that he was right. Most people don't know it, but a lot of movies are made in the East. India is supposed to turn out more movies than any other country in the world next to the United States-and movie making is his business in Hong Kong and Singapore. Siam's movie business was smaller, but I knew that a lot of films were turned out for local consumption every year.
Most were pretty dull, in my estimation, but I didn't doubt but that Jaybee could rent or lease all the equipment he needed right here in Bangkok.
"They got some pretty good camera and sound men, too," Jaybee added. "They won't work cheap-but compared to what I'd have to pay back in the States what they ask is nothing."
"What about actors? You going to use just this Carla woman, and for the rest of the cast use Chinese or Thai?"
"Caxlotta," corrected Jaybee. "No, I gotta have some Caucasians in the movie. But I sot that all figured out, too. Partly I'll use amateurs-like the Italians do. And where I need someone with a little professional training, I'll hire a few types cheap the next time a stage road company passes through."
That was possible, all right. Quite a few American, English and Australian road companies toured the big cities in the Far East. Mostly they concentrated on Shakespeare, old Broadway comedies and a few Noel Coward standby's. Usually the companies toured on a shoestring, and undoubtedly any of the actors would jump at the chance of picking up a few extra bucks by acting in Jaybee's movie.
"What about your script?" I asked "You got that ready?"
Jaybee assured me that he had. In fact, it appeared that Jaybee had written the script himself.
I thanked him for his time, told him I'd let him know my decision the next day, and departed with a copy of Jaybee's shooting script under my arm.
"You gotta realize," he called after me, "that I'm not trying to win any Oscars with this pic-just turn out a good, solid commercial job that'll make a pile of money."
I couldn't argue with that.
* * *
I reached home about noon to find that Ling, my house boy, was already setting out lunch. Prawn salad, pungent tasting fish soup, chicken fried with exotic tasting Thai herbs, and several ice cold bottles of Danish beer.
While I was eating Ling informed me that Louise Jesperson had telephoned four times during the morning, and wanted me to call her back. The hell with her. She and Ed were scheduled to fly on to Hong Kong this afternoon.
I told Ling to tell her I'd been called to Khorat on urgent business, and settled down to eat lunch and peruse Jaybee's script.
I'd gotten almost through the former and about a third of the way through the latter when a pair of cool, slim hands clapped themselves over my eyes from behind me.
For a moment I was afraid Louise had persuaded her husband to stay over a few more days, and had arrived unannounced to bother me.
Then I caught a whiff of perfume-Sandlewood and something else, something that, appropriately, always made me think of a tigress in heat.
I pulled the hands from my eyes and turned to grin at Tiger Lily. "One of these days, I told her, "you're going to sneak into my garden once too often-and I'll mistake you for a terrorist."
The Tiger Lily leaned forward to ruffle my hair. "You have sneaked into my garden many times, Dave. And have I ever complained?"
She had a point there. As the star hostess at the Scarlet Dragon the Tiger Lily was a much sought after piece of flesh. And when she succumbed-which she did regularly a couple of times a week at least-whatever lucky man got the nod paid plenty for the privilege.
All except me. For some reason the Tiger Lily had taken a fancy to me, and my money was no good. Oh, she let me buy her trinkets now and then-and she let me pay her when I wanted her to soften up a prospective business client. But sex I got for free. That is, whenever she was in the mood.
Which was twenty-four hours a day.
On the other hand, unlike Louise and some of the other tourist tramps I'd bedded, she was neither jealous nor demanding. She played around with other men--for profit; and I played between the sheets with other girls-for fun.
And no harsh words were spoken by either party. So far as I was concerned, it was a sweet arrangement. Whenever the full-time pros at the Jade Grotto began to pall, or the tourist women began to get on my nerves, there was always Tiger Lily to fall back on.
And falling on the Tiger Lily was a hell of a lot of fun.
"Sit down," I told her. "Have a bottle of beer and tell me about Ed Jesperson. You did a sweet job on him, by the way. Mr. Chang tells me he was so befuddled he would have signed an order for his own execution without looking at the fine print."
The Tiger Lily smiled and sprawled back in a wicker chair. She crossed her legs-a movement which nicely displayed nine-tenths of her ripe thighs-and reached for one of the bottles of Danish beer.
"That one. The ardor of a mouse in the body of a water buffalo. For a man with such a fat belly he was very small where-where a real man should not be."
I yelled for Ling to bring out some more beer and settled back to listen to Tee Ell (who can call a woman Tiger Lily all the time?) describe her bedtime adventure with Ed Jesperson. Despite the thick accent she put on for the suckers, Tee Ell had a reasonably good education and a nice feeling for the English language. She described, in well chosen words, Ed's actions in detail until I almost began to squirm with embarrassment for the poor slob.
"Then," she finished, "while he was still lying panting on the bed-like a pink elephant, he looked-I told him it was bad luck if a Thai girl didn't make her lover happy three times during their first night." She thoughtfully licked a speck of foam from the top of her beer bottle "Well, I made him happy. But it was not easy." She laughed. "Can a limp vine become a bamboo shoot? He didn't think so. But he was wrong."
"He was also," I added, "a near physical wreck according to Mr. Chang's description of how he hobbled into the Scarlet Dragon."
Tee Ell smiled in satisfaction. "Truly no man can resist the Tiger named Lily." She thumped her boobs in a mock Tarzan gesture. "I eat all men alive!""
In a manner of speaking, it was no idle boast. The Tiger Lily's reputation as a femme fatale had spread throughout most of Thailand. Old time residents of Bangkok delighted in referring to her as Thailand's answer to Tondelayo.
In point of fact, she looked more like a youthful version of the Dragon Lady. She had the same exotically slanted eyes, the requisite long, lustrous black smooth hair and the pale brown complexion tinged with gold that makes so many Thai women look like a cross between the Chinese and Polynesian-which, for all the anthropologists really know, they may be.
Right now she was dressed in western fashion: sandals, a short skirt of bright print, and a sheer white blouse that was transparent enough to show every strand of her black lace bra.
The bra was strictly ornamental. Tee Ell had about as much sag in her breastworks as a coiled spring.
She finished her beer, yawned, stood up, and began leafing through Jaybee Weber's shooting script.
"What is this?"
"A movie script. I'm thinking of backing a movie for fun and profit."
She clapped her hands excitedly. "Can I be in it?"
"Maybe. If there's a part for you. And maybe even if there isn't. All depends upon how good a girl you are."
Tee Ell pretended to be crestfallen. "But I am an old woman-nearly twenty-one. I cannot change my ways now. I can only be a bad girl. I like being a bad girl."
She smiled down at me from under long black lashes and switched her weight from one foot to the other, an action which made her hips swing like a pendulum. A ripe, tempting pendulum.
I stood up and reached for her. Overhead a jet plane whistled plaintively as it climbed over the city. The afternoon plane for Hong Kong. So long, Louise, I thought. I'll sure miss you. Like hell I will.
"Maybe I can reform you," I said. "Just what is it that you've been doing that's bad."
I slid my arms around her warm, tiny waist, let them slide up under her blouse to caress the smooth flesh of her back.
Tee Ell said nothing but purred contentedly. She actually made a purring sound, a funny habit of hers. My guess is that she'd begun doing it as a gag, to fit her feline name, and now did it unconsciously whenever she was happy.
And she was always happy when a man's hands were touching her bare flesh.
I pulled loose one hand and began to unfasten the buttons of her blouse. Five buttons. Then a tricky hook and eye arrangement at the top. Then nothing.
Nothing but the Tiger Lily's bosom rising like incredible mountains from the golden plain of her chest. Breasts that strained valiantly to push through the black mesh that imprisoned them.
I took pity on them. Why should such a noble pair of boobs be cooped up on a balmy, flower-scented afternoon? They should be allowed to spring free, like the quivering wild creatures they were.
I reached around and fumbled loose the catch fastening her bra strap, felt the elastic material stretch and then spring apart. The bra fell unlamented to the ground.
"Ahhhh," said Tee Ell. She arched her back and her breasts quivered and bounced before my eyes. I stilled their quivering with my hands, feeling the soft nipples stir to life and in my palms.
She reached out slender hands, gently pulled my head down. She didn't have to pull hard.
For a long moment we stood like that, the Tiger Lily with her body bent back, me with my face buried between two soft mounds that seemed to singe my cheeks with fire.
Then I raised my head a little and began to tease her nipples with my lips. I felt like purring myself.
"Dave," she whispered, "we shouldn't. Not out here in the garden. Anyone might see us."
I let my lips circle one of her up-thrust nipples, teasing it softly, urgently. Then I raised my head and said, "Nuts."
Which, roughly translated, meant 'no one can see us because there's a six foot wall around the garden, and if anyone should climb it, they deserve to see something interesting for their exertions'.
What a wall climber would have seen next would have been Tee Ell laughing softly at my efforts to unfasten the belt clasp of her skirt.
"Silly," she whispered. "It goes this way. Down."
And so it did. And down went her skirt, sliding slowly down past the wide flare of her hips, past the flat golden meadow of her belly, past the soft fullness of her thighs.
She stepped daintily out of the crumpled circle of her skirt and then stood on her toes, stretching her arms high over her head.
"Perhaps," she said wickedly, "I am no longer in the mood."
I didn't answer her. I just looked at the long, graceful sweep of her body. She was like a miraculous statue cast out of copper-bronze. Partly because Thai women have little body hair, and partly because she religiously shaved off the rest, her entire figure was glossy smooth to the eye. And to the touch.
She stood there smiling at me, her head tilted to one side, her arms sill clasped high above her head. Her lips might pretend she wasn't in the mood, but every inch of her stance said 'here is my body-do with it as you will'.
"In olden times," I said, "men would have worshipped you as a witch-an Oriental witch."
She smiled. "Then worship me, Occidental one."
I dropped to my knees in front of her and buried my face in the soft golden fire of her belly. My hands slid up her legs slowly, starting from her dainty ankles and moving up to the curving resiliency of her thighs.
"Is that how men worshipped pagan goddesses in the old days?" she asked teasingly.
I grunted. "Most likely. Anyway, it beats sacrificing goats."
T let my hands slide higher to the plump, firm tautness of her buttocks. I squeezed gently.
"Harder," she whispered, and I squeezed harder. "Kiss me," she whispered, and I kissed her where she wanted me to kiss her. and her body writhed and twisted beneath my lips while above me I heard her gasp and moan and whimper with pleasure.
Then I could stand no more myself, and I picked her up and carried her across the lawn and dropped her onto the wide garden hammock I had slung between four flowering trees.
She bounced as if dropped on a trampoline, and her breasts quivered like two great cones of golden jelly. I hardly noticed. I was too busy getting out of my clothes.
And then there were two of us on the hammock, and the soft netting bounced and bounced as we meshed together.
"Oh, Dave," she gasped, "I cannot stand it-I cannot stand it. Hurry, hurry, stab me with your love. Stab me, stab me, stab me!"
And savagely, ecstatically, sword and sheath joined until the world dissolved into a pin-wheel of pulsing fire that I prayed would never end.
It ended.
An hour passed.
Another shuddering, shattering, detonation of passionate fire. Quiet.
The soft whisper of warm breezes through flower trees, the drowsy drone of insects, the quiet breathing of lips almost touching mine. Sleep.
Wakening. The gentle touch of female hands caressing a man. The firm caress of male hands searching the soft privacy of a girl's body. A joining together of flesh, a renewed pulsing of love, a searing agony of physical joy.
And that was enough.
I slapped the Tiger Lily playfully on the rump and told her to get showered and dressed or she'd be late for work.
And I retrieved Jaybee's movie script and carried it back to the hammock.
After all, fun is fun, but you can't put memories in the bank. I had work to do.
I waved goodby to Tee Ell and settled back to read.
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time I finished reading dusk Was Settling over Bangkok, and I had discovered that-at times at least-Jaybee Weber was a truthful man: his movie would never win any Oscars.
Technically, I suppose his script was profesionally written-I mean, it was full of camera angles and technical notes that undoubtedly were knowledgeably employed. What worried me was the story itself. It was lousy.
Jaybee had assured me, that morning, that the secret of writing a successful commercial movie lay in an adroit combination of proven situations-by which I assume he meant re-hashing old cinematic cliches.
He'd done that all right. The only trouble was, the stew he'd concocted struck me as being about as appealing as an over-ripe durian-and you can smell an underripe durian three blocks away.
Leaving out the fancy camera angles, his saga boiled down to this: a pure wholesome American girl arrives in Bangkok to look for her medical missionary husband who has apparently vanished into the jungle.
In Bangkok she persuades a pure, wholesome American soldier of fortune to guide her up river.
They go up river by native canoe (a craft unknown in Siam), accompanied by (and I'm quoting Jaybee's script) "several amusing native types and bearers."
On the way they are attacked by 1) a boa constrictor (presumably an immigrant from South America, since there ain't no boas in Siam), 2) a herd of crocodiles (crocs we have) 3) a band of Communist guerrillas, 4) head-hunters (tourists from New Guinea?), and 5) a river of lava.
Surprisingly, they don't encounter any prehistoric monsters or flying saucers. Neither do they encounter the wholesome girl's husband-though a tribe of friendly natives (with tears in their eyes) relate the sad story of his heroic death during an epidemic of bubonic plague.
After discovering a gold mine and stuffing their pockets with nuggets, the wholesome twosome paddle down the river into the sunset, after being married by a kindly old missionary who was described as being "a Barry Fitzgerald type."
Although there was astonishingly little sex interest between the two wholesome lead characters, Jaybee had justified his title of RIVER OF LUST by including a number of scenes showing "native orgies" and "provocative tribal dances".
All in all, it struck me as being a pretty lousy script.
The trouble was, however, that I was in roughly the same position as a man who knows nothing about cooking who has just been offered a lousy meal: I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what should be done to remedy it.
I thought about this for a while, then telephoned Mr. Chang and told him to round up all the writers he could find and deliver them to my house at eight o'clock that evening.
"Ah," said Mr. Chang. "What kind of writers?"
"Any kind. But not ones that will want a lot of money for a simple chore, if you know what I mean."
"Ah," said Mr. Chang. "I believe I do."
And, true to his word, Mr. Chang arrived sharp at eight with a bedraggled covy of five writers at his heels.
In the interim I hadn't been idle. A samlor boy had delivered a large manila envelope from Jaybee containing half-a-dozen photographs of his erstwhile star, Car-lotta Ernst, together with a bunch of clippings from movie magazines.
And, for the first time, I began to feel really enthusiastic about Jaybee's movie. Because Carlotta Ernst was obviously everything he'd claimed her to be.
She was a small, slender girl with a figure you could call boyish if you were willing to overlook a pair of sweetly curving hips and a brace of firm, pouting breasts. The photographs were in color, and so far as I could tell her whitish blonde hair-worn long and straight, Veronica Lake style-looked natural.
One of the photographs showed her in a bikini, so there was no doubt about the genuineness of her other assets. She had long, coltish legs, but her thighs-while not as lushly ripe as the Tiger Lily's-were full and shapely.
Her backside was cute, compact and heart-shaped.
All in all, a very, very nice piece.
From the articles clipped from the fan magazines I learned that she was twenty-one, was Austrian, and had worked in Vienna as a secretary until she had been spotted by an Italian movie producer who promptly gave her a starring role.
From then on she climbed quickly and, to date-or to date the article was written, which was about six months ago-she'd appeared in about half-a-dozen European movies and an equal number of American cnes.
All the movie magazine articles referred to her as "one of the hottest properties in Hollywood"-a phrase I assume referred to box office appeal rather than to her talents between the sheets.
Though after taking a second look at the photograph of her in a bikini I decided a girl with her assets didn't really need talent so far as I was concerned. All she had to do was just lie there, without the bikini, and I'd be more than willing to do the rest.
One thing was sure: if Carlotta Ernst had really agreed to appear in Jaybee's movie, it greatly increased the odds in favor of our making money out of it.
The question was, why had a dish like Carlotta agreed to appear in a second rate film shot in the jungle by a second rate Hollywood character? For the time being I filed the question away for future investigation and settled down to scrutinize the five writers Mr. Chang had dredged up.
They didn't look any too promising.
The first was an ex-newspaper correspondent who'd been fired from one of the wire, services for excessive drinking. He was currently drowning his sorrows in mekong and, despite a healthy looking tan (the result, no doubt, of sleeping off his drunks in sun-drenched gutters) he looked as if he were about to sink for the third time.
Next came another ex-reporter, this one more than a little pipe-happy. The sickly sweet smell of opium was still strong on his wrinkled white suit.
The third and fourth were both a little more than youngsters. They were, they claimed, Beat poets who had followed the gleam to Bangkok to search for Truth and Meaning. Truth and Meaning had eluded them, and they were currently keeping alive by begging from bemused tourists.
The fifth was an English novelist who, after writing five bad novels in a row in England, had journeyed to Bangkok to write a sixth one. The novel was still unwritten, but the Englishman had meanwhile decided that his mind was more suited to philosophy than to fiction and for the past six months, aided by a half-a-dozen opium pipes a day and meagerly supported by a small monthly remittance from his family, had devoted his time to thinking.
I never asked him what he thought about, and he never volunteered to tell me. But since he was the only one of the bunch with even a nodding acquaintance with fiction-and I guess you can call movies fiction-I told him to stay.
The other four writers, after tossing them a few tics for their trouble, I told to get lost. Which, presumably, they did.
The Englishman, whose name was Winters, accepted a stinger and looked disdainfully at Jaybee's script.
"RIVER OF LUST. Good God. You want me to read this?"
"Right. Read it and tell me what's wrong with it. Then tell me what should be done to fix it."
"My dear boy," said Winters, tapping the manuscript disdainfully with a long, opium stained finger, "I know nothing about motion pictures. I despise motion pictures. And writing, as such, no longer interests me."
"I'm not asking you this as a favor," I said patiently. "I'll pay you five hundred tics."
"Hmm." He fingered the manuscript gingerly, as if it were laden with disease germs. "Five hundred tics isn't very much money, old man."
"All right. Five hundred tics for reading the script and giving me your opinion. Another five hundred for telling me what should be done with it-and I don't mean telling me to put a match to it."
Winters looked thoughtful. "I suppose there's no harm in at least looking at it. Uh, might I have a pipe? It helps me concentrate."
"Okay. Just one, though." I called Ling and told him to prepare a pipe for Winters. I don't smoke the stuff myself, but I always keep some on hand for guests.
Winters sat back in one of my wicker easy chairs and drummed his fingers nervously while Ling prepared the long bamboo pipe, tipped at both ends with bright blue plastic (the Thais are very up-to-date-even chop sticks are made of plastic these days) Ling kneaded the hot paste on the edge of the pipe bowl, then held the bowl over a flame until the tiny ball of opium was ready.
Winters took the proffered pipe and inhaled deeply. It took him three pulls to finish it. A really experienced smoker can finish a pipe in one inhalation; but then, Winters had only been on the stuff six months.
I told Ling to mix me a stinger, and by the time I had downed it Winters, an expression on his face akin to a drawing I had once seen of a Christian martyr about to be fed to the lions, was deep in Jaybee's script.
I settled down to look over some business accounts and for a while silence settled over my living room, broken only by occasional exclamations of disgust from Winters as he read rapidly through the script.
Half an hour later he dropped the script on the floor and wiped his hands carefully with a soiled handkerchief.
"I need another pipe, old man," he said. "Desperately."
Having read Jaybee's script myself, I knew he was telling the truth.
Ten minutes later, the pipe having been prepared and consumed, Winters proceeded to tell me what was wrong with RIVER OF LUST.
"Granted," I said, when he'd finally run out of four letter adjectives. "I agree completely. Now, for another five hundred tics, tell me how it can be improved.
I don't want a masterpiece. I just want a sound, commercial piece of hokum."
I tossed him a photograph of Carlotta Ernst. "This is the heroine. She's gotta stay. Anything else can go."
Winters studied Carlotta's face and figure with interest for a few moments. Then he dropped the picture on the floor next to the script, frowned at both for a moment, and then put his head back against the wicker chair.
For a while I was afraid he'd fallen asleep, but apparently he was only thinking, for a couple of minutes later he got up and began to pace slowly back and forth across the room while he talked.
And, to my amazement, he talked sense. Once he'd decided to prostitute his talents he was willing to prostitute them all the way. He even seemed to take a gloomy relish out of concocting commercial hokum.
"As I see it," said Winters, "the fellow who wrote this script is on the right-if sordid-track. I mean this boy and girl trekking through the jungle or paddling up a river is sound enough. A lot of successful films have used this basic plot-KING SOLOMON'S MINES, THE AFRICAN QUEEN and so on."
He stopped and stabbed the air with a finger in a gesture that was oddly reminiscent of Jaybee Weber. "But his characters are both impossible. Wholesome girls are uninteresting. And who ever heard of a wholesome soldier of fortune?-nothing personal, old man."
I nodded and sat back while Winters paced and talked, talked and paced. In a way it was instructive to listen. Without changing the basic plot, he made a number of changes in the characters and motivations changes that, if it left the characters still cimematic stereotypes, made them more interesting stereotypes.
He made a number of suggestions, too-all of which I noted down.
Then, after treating him to a third pipe and paying him a thousand ticals, I told him to get lost.
And telephoned Jaybee Weber.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jaybee was delighted to hear from me. He was even delighted when I told him I was willing to put up the money he needed.
"But," I. said firmly, "we'll have to settle a few things first. To begin with your script is lousy-you'll have to rewrite it." Silence.
"Take the character of your heroine," I said. "Who cares about wholesome girls? They're uninteresting. Now, suppose we make this girl a bit of a bitch. She's anxious to find her long lost husband not because she loves him, but because if she can prove he's dead she won't have to wait seven years for him to be declared legally dead-and she'll be able to get her hands on his money right away."
"Urn," said Jaybee thoughtfully.
"And this soldier of fortune she hires. Who ever heard of an honest adventurer? Let's make him a little dishonest, too. Maybe a scene like this-when the blonde bitch hires him, he catches on right away that she's hoping to find hubby dead and rotten in the jungle. So he asks her what if they find hubby alive, and she says wouldn't it be tragic if her poor sick husband were to fall in the river and drown on the way back."
"Mmmm," said Jaybee.
"So the hero, who's a bit of a heel but not quite as rotten as the heroine, says he doesn't want any part of the deal or of her. And then she gives him a long sultry look and-in a real suggestive manner--pulls off her long, elbow length black gloves. The way Rita Hayworth did in that movie with Glenn Ford. Get it? She's going to do a strip for him. Only we pull the camera back so all we see is him looking and drooling while bits of her clothing get tossed past his shoulder. Then we move the camera to show them embracing like crazy-we shoot high, so that while the audience can see her bare arms and shoulders-and know she's supposed to be nude-we don't actually show her nude. That way we'll get by the censors."
"Great," said Jaybee, with obvious sincerity. "Really great. But what's she doing wearing elbow length gloves in the jungle?"
Damn. I hadn't thought of that. The long black gloves had come straight out of Winters' second pipe.
"Well," I said, "we can just have her start to unzip her zipper or something. The details aren't important." I went on to outline the rest of Winters' suggestions
-the hero, after being seduced, agrees to take her up river to find her husband and knock him off if he isn't already dead. They paddle and sex their way up river-only to find themselves stranded in a remote native village.
"Here," I told Jaybee, "they find a big epidemic raging. Now get this. They couldn't care less if all the natives died off like flies. But the old chief is senile
-he thinks they're medical missionaries come to save his villagers. And if they don't set right to work putting down the epidemic, he'll feed 'em to the crocodiles."
"I'm with you, boy!" shouted Jaybee. "So the two of 'em set to work with only a first aid handbook and a bottle of aspirin. And though being forced to nurse the sick natives, they gradually undergo a character change-they find they like nursing sick natives."
"That's what I had in mind," I admitted. "Now, as I see it. we've got at least three possible endings. They find the girl's husband alive playing Dr. Schweitzer in the bush-and the girl stays with him to help him in his work.
"Or they find out he's dead, but the two of them decide they'll stay and finish his work.
"Or everybody dies, but the natives have learned all about first aid, and we know they haven't died in vain. Maybe we close with a shot of sympathetic native scattering flowers on their graves-and then picking up their first aid handbook and marching purposefully off toward the village hospital, with the orchestra playing something like ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS real loud."
"I'm sold, Davey boy!" Jaybee chortled. "We'll mate a great movie-a powerful movie. Character regeneration in the jungle. With sex. You've got some great ideas there, Davey boy. You should have been a writer."
I made the verbal equivalent of a shrug into the phone. "It's nothing," I said. "I just gave the whole thing a little thought."
I hung up with Jaybee's praises still ringing in my ear. I had, actually, several more pages of notes covering additional suggestions by Winters. But I decided not to spring them all on Jaybee at once.
I'd feed him the rest tomorrow-I'd agreed to meet him in the morning to talk over the whole deal-and let him think ideas came to me spontaneously.
And they do, of course. I'd undoubtedly have come up with as good or belter ideas than Winters if I'd cared to spend time thinking about the script. Winters had merely put my own half-formed thoughts into words.
From a thousand feet up the Ping river winds like a silver rope through low, jungle clad hills of vivid emerald green while elephants, as majestic as statues and as ponderous as tanks, wade lazily through the shallows.
From the river itself the emerald of the jungle dissolves into a hundred different hues of green, splashed with gaudy flowers of every color. Butterflies as'big as saucers flutter over the rippling water, while birds in plumage of blue and crimson swoop gracefully in pursuit.
"Great," said Jaybee. "Just great. We can use a lot of this footage."
We were not. needless to say, travelling over or along the Ping river. Instead we were sitting comfortably in a bamboo walled projection room in Bangkok, watching color footage of Thailand's countryside being run off for our benefit.
Jaybee had, he told me, been screening similar footage for the past three days.
And as he told me just why, my respect for his ability to cut corners and save money grew by leaps and bounds. He was watching all this footage depicting Siam in order to "shoot" his documentaries-the two commercial travelogues plus the Thai Government-International Geographic documentary.
It was really pretty ingenious.
As soon as he'd arrived in Bangkok he'd trotted around to all the local Siamese movie making outfits and asked to see-and if he liked it buy-all the stock footage they had showing the Siamese countryside.
They hadn't had too much-at least, not very much in color, which was all Jaybee was interested in.
The Siamese movie makers, operating on very low budgets, had shot most of their movies very, very carefully. They'd figured out in exact detail every scene they'd needed, and how much footage would be required-and shot that and only that.
Not for them the casual, expensive Hollywood practice of shooting thousands of feet of background footage and then picking and choosing the best few hundred feet.
But this hadn't phased Jaybee. He'd made a deal with them. For the equivalent-at the current rate of exchange-of a handful of dollars, each of the tiny 'studios' had put a girl to work screening the master prints of all the movies they'd ever shot in color.
Whenever these girls-at one time eight were at work-spotted anything colorful, any crowd scene that wasn't too obviously tied in with a particular scene, she simply snipped this footage from the movie.
These excerpts, after being carefully numbered so that they could be pasted back in place afterwards, were all pasted together in one long reel.
It was one of these reels we were watching now.
"This used to be standard practice in Hollywood in the old days," Jaybee confided as we watched long shots, medium shots and close ups of the Thai countryside flicker before our eyes. "In the old days, when a producer got an assignment to make a B movie, the first thing he'd do would be to pull a writer he knew out of the writers' pool and then the two of them would take a long walk through the lot."
"For exercise?"
Jaybee shook his straggling red beard impatiently. "Of course not. The idea was to see what sets were currently standing-sets that had been built for the A pictures. Say they'd find a mock-up of the Jamaica waterfront back in seventeen ninety or something-like it's been built for a big budget pirate movie. You with me?"
"I'm with you. Back in Jamaica on the waterfront."
"Right. So what do they do? They tell the construction crew not to strike the set for a few days-then they get to work with a paint brush, make a few changes here and there, hang up some Chinese signs and lo, you've got an expensive looking set that looks for all the world like Hong Kong in 1961."
"Have you ever seen Hong Kong?" I inquired skeptically.
"No. And neither have any of the goons who go to movies. So what do they know? But you get the point
-for peanuts the producer has got himself a set that cost maybe two, three hundred grand to build.
"So he and the writer keep on walking. Pretty soon they come to, oh, let's say a big mock-up of an ocean liner that's maybe been used for a big musical. They get permission to have that set left up a few days-repaint it, change the name of the ship-and bango, they've got two first rate sets they can use. A ship going to Hong Kong, and Hong Kong itself."
"Very ingenious," I said. "But what if the sets they find don't fit into the plot of the movie they're making?"
Jaybee turned to stare at me incredulously, a gesture which caused him to miss a nice shot of elephants bathing in a muddy pool. "Don't you catch on? They're plotting the movie as they go-good looking sets first, and a plot tailored to bring em all in together."
He puffed cigar smoke at the bamboo ceiling of the projection room. "Why, one time when I was just starting out-I was only an assistant camera man at the time-we put together a B movie out of five different sets we found on the lot." He puffed more smoke. "It was a lousy movie, but the critics loved the sets."
"All very interesting," I said. "But what has all this got to do with the footage we're watching?"
"Simple. We don't have any sets around here we can use-these local hicks don't go much for building sets. But we can use a lot of footage from their movies."
"Take this," he waved a pudgy hand at the screen, where a traveling shot of the Bangkok waterfront was unfolding. "We can use that just fine. Close shot of the heroine peering over the rail of the ship as it approaches Bangkok-then a reverse, or what the audience thinks is a reverse, to show what she's looking at. Which is this footage."
He settled back comfortably and drew happily on his cigar. "We used to borrow footage this way to make B movies, too. That pic I was telling you about, the one that used five sets from other movies. We used footage from another twenty-four to make it."
"Well," I told him, "if you say it can be done I guess it can."
"You're damn right it can be done. I've already made notes of enough good footage to put together five travelogues. What I'm looking for now is stuff-good stuff-I can use for my own movie. Our movie."
As I said, Jaybee was pretty sharp when it came to cutting corners. He'd also managed to anticipate some of the additional criticisms I'd intended to make concerning his movie-namely that his script failed to exploit a lot of the natural beauty and color of Siam.
Obviously Jaybee was aware of this.
"A lot of these shots taken on rivers we can use easy," he commented. "I'll just string 'em together so they look like what the hero and heroine see as they paddle up river."
"We can't have them paddle," I objected. "No canoes. They'll have to travel by motor launch. Lot of them in Siam."
Jaybee scowled. 'Motor launches aren't romantic."
"Well, we could get an old, romantic looking launch."
"Yeah. Maybe so. One like Katy Hepburn and Bogart were on in that Africa pic. Do they have steam launches around here? Old ones?"
"Probably. There are some up river, I know."
"Good. We'll buy one cheap."
Since my money was going to be involved I inquired if it wouldn't be cheaper still if we simply rented it.
"Nah. Soon as people hear you're shooting a movie, they start charging fifty times the going rate. I don't care where it is-Tahiti or Timbuktoo-soon as the locals smell movie money they start cheating you. No, we buy the launch cheap, then re-sell it when we're through. That way we get off easy, believe me."
He was right, of course. My respect for Jaybee's business acumen went up another half-notch.
My respect for the ability of his eyes to take punishment was going up, too. I'd been watching footage for only a few hours, and I was already red-eyed. Jaybee had been at it for days, and seemed to thrive on it.
I decided to cut out and leave the footage screening to him, and started to get to my feet. Jaybee pulled at my sleeve to tug me down into my seat again.
"Don't go now. Here comes another beauty contest."
I glanced at the screen. He was right. I sat down again at once.
It's a funny thing, but that while the Thais have considered carefully and then rejected many western customs and ways, two things they have taken to their hearts and adopted as assidiously and devotedly as the Japanese adopted baseball: jazz music and bathing beauty contests.
No village in Thailand is too small but that it doesn't boast of its beauty contest contenders or winners. And no town is too small to feature regular contests.
When the preliminaries have weeded out the merely beautiful from the incredibly gorgeous, and the winners from each town go on to the various big city finals-ending, of course, in Bangkok where the crown of Miss Thailand is at stake-the whole country is in a state of near frenzy.
Crowds of cheering partisans from Khorat, from Nakhon Sawan, from Phitsanulok, from Lampang, from Lumphun (especially from Lumphun, which beauty queen wise is the Atlantic City of Siam), from Chiang Mai-from wherever a local lovely has been chosen to represent them-all these enthusiastic fans descend upon Bangkok to root for their home town girl.
Why the Thai are so keen on bathing beauty contests is something many learned scholars have devoted time to pondering. Wasted time, in my opinion.
Because my guess is that the Thai's like these contests for the same reason I do-they like leering at pretty females without many clothes.
The particular contest being shown on the screen was one I'd caught in person the year before, a minor-but choice-showing of female flesh that took place in Chiang Mai.
Whoever had taken the movie footage hadn't wasted time shooting local color-the festival like air of the fair grounds, the happy milling throngs of peasants and tourists. He knew what he liked, and that was what he'd photographed: girls.
Slender brown-skinned girls with eyes like jungle deer, sultry up-country girls with round faces and rounder breasts, town girls with western hair-dos but native hip sway, thin girls, chubby girls, shy girls, brazen girls. On girl after girl, the camera dwelt lovingly and long.
A few more wearing traditional sarongs-but most of them, even the girls from the more remote villages, were wearing the Thai version of the bikini. Which is like the French version, only better.
The footage ended with a long sequence in which the girls filed slowly past the camera. The camera must have been resting on a low tripod, and evidently the camera man had been too busy ogling to worry about where it was pointing-because all that showed on the screen was the lower half of the girls as they strolled along the bamboo runway.
Not that the lower halves weren't interesting. Jaybee and I sat in silent admiration as back-side after back-side passed across the screen-some jiggling saucily, some bouncing happily, some swaying seductively, and a few churning like ships anchored in a rough sea.
"Run that passage again," called Jaybee. The projectionist backed up the film and ran it again.
This time I concentrated on thighs. Ripe thighs, sleek thighs, quivering thighs; thighs of golden brown, of creamy yellow, of pale beige. Thighs to dream about on long winter nights, thighs to ponder, thighs to touch, thighs that begged to be squeezed and patted. And all of them thighs it would be fun to get to know intimately.
Finally the footage ended and more scenes of temples and flowering gardens flashed on the screen. I sighed and got to my feet.
Jaybee climbed to his feet at the same time. "Hold it!" he yelled to the projectionist. "I'm taking a break." Then, to me, he said: "I don't suppose you know any place in town where a guy can get laid in comfort, do you?"
"I do," I said. "And I can guarantee the girls-the owner is a friend of mine. Come on, I'm on my way there myself."
I ha a feeling Jaybee would appreciate the Jade Grotto.
He did.
CHAPTER NINE
Captain Alchai is a slender, wiry little man who looks a little like a dark brown Peter Lorre with a longer face.
A week ago it would never have occurred to me to make the comparison. But during the past few days, working with-or simply listening to-Jaybee Weber, I had begun to think in motion picture terms.
We were sitting, Captain Alchai and I, at a sidewalk cafe table sipping mekong and chatting about the weather. The tete-a-tete wasn't my idea; Captain Alchai had spotted me drinking alone and politely asked permission to join me.
Cops are very polite in Thailand.
At times I almost get homesick for the old, rough, you're-guilty-till-we-beat-the-innocence-out-of-you approach of Stateside cops. Almost.
I lit a cigarette and discussed the nuances of Bangkok weather. Captain Alchai lit a cheroot and mused aloud about the current rice harvest. We ordered two more bottles of mekong and pondered the implications of the political situation in Laos. We watched and admired perhaps a dozen passing girls.
Then we got down to business.
"I was interested to learn," said Alchai casually, "that you have plunged into the motion picture making business."
"Actually I'm only backing just one picture," I said. "But I'll admit that it's a fascinating game. Don't know why I never thought of fooling around this way before."
"Many legal enterprises offer much scope for the adventurous," said Alchai, gazing idly at the distant spires of a temple gleaming gold in the setting sun. He lowered his eyes and studied my face. "Did you know," he asked, "that we were forced to arrest Loco Harry?"
"Why, no," I lied. I'd heard the news only an hour or so before.
Alchai nodded, his eyes serious. "A pity, in a way. Loco-a curious name-Loco Harry is personally a most likable person. It grieved me that he never-settled down in this country."
"What was the charge?" I asked.
"Narcotics. Possession of, transporting of, illegal sale of." He sighed. "There were a number of other things I could have charged him with-after I completed searching his house and his aircraft. But-" He turned his hands palm upwards. "But why harass a man who is already in trouble?"
I didn't doubt he was telling the truth. He probably had enough on Loco to hang him. As it was, Loco would cool his heels in a comfortable cell for a few days, and then be politely deported. Alchai always bent over backwards to be fair, I had to admit that.
"Do you ever wonder," he went on, "why I so often allow Europeans-and Americans-so much more, how shall I put it, leeway when their honesty is in doubt?"
I shook my head.
A shadow flashed over us just then and I involuntarily flinched. Stupid. But then, in all the time I'd spent in Bangkok I'd never become quite accustomed to the giant bats that whispered overhead at dusk.
"We in Thailand," Alchai continued, "have learned much from the West-but in many things, particularly in business and commercial things, we still have much to learn.
"Entrepreneurs-business adventurers-can teach us much. Can help us much. Not because they improve our country so much or because they create jobs-but because they, the best of them at least, can teach us by example."
"Huh?"
"You smile. But I speak seriously. Perhaps we Thai do not have enough-initiative. Enough, how shall I put it, commercial imagination. We do not look at a situation and say what can be done to make this better? How can inovations improve a business like this?"
I ordered another couple of bottles of Mekong. I hoped Alchai's lecture wouldn't be a long one. I had plans for the evening.
"Some years ago," Alchai said, "a Canadian came to Bangkok and opened a laundromat. It was quite successful. More, it inspired a number of Thais to follow his example." He lit a fresh cheroot. "An admirable business institution, the laundromat. Efficient. Economical. Time saving."
"Clean, too," I volunteered.
"Yes. Clean. Not dishonest. But the Canadian I speak of dabbled in a number of things first. Women. A little forgery. Some attempted smuggling."
I stifled a yawn. "But then you persuaded him that honesty was the best policy, huh?"
"I persuaded him that honesty was the practical policy," Alchai corrected. "Now, if I had arrested and deported this Canadian as soon as he had made a false step, Thailand would have been the poorer."
He leaned back and smiled at me genially. "Instead, I recognized that, in a manner of speaking, his dishonesty was almost to be expected. Not, I hasten to add, because Europeans are more dishonest than we. No, it is more subtle."
Get to the point, you long winded idiot, I thought. Aloud I said: "Oh, what is that?"
"You see, for so many years the Far East has been, in the minds of Europeans and Americans both, a place where one came to get rich fast. To, as you put it, make a fast book."
"Buck. Go on."
"Buck. Your New England clipper ships-so aptly named-that made fortunes in the last century. The British with their trading posts. The Dutch. The French And, of course, the legions of heroes in your American historical novels. All to the East. All to make a fast buck."
"A lot have made just that," I said.
"True. But times have changed. We are not ignorant men to be exploited any more. At least, we try not to be. More, we try to be understanding. So when young Americans and Europeans come here, we understand that in the back of their minds they think, here is a country ripe to be looted-to be exploited. We don't condemn them for their conditioning. We only ask that they adjust."
"Uh huh. Loco Harry didn't adjust, is that it?"
"That is just it. A pity. A likable man. A resourceful man. And one who knows much about airplanes. If only he had devoted his talents to building up his air-taxi service-Thailand would have gained a useful business. And in the end, Loco Harry would have profited much more."
"He wanted to buy a couple more planes," I said. "He didn't have the money."
Alchai shook his head sadly. "He was not truthful to you, Mr. Owen. He has had a bank account of more than a hundred thousand dollars for the past six months or so."
The lousy bastard. And he'd come crying to me for money. Well, that proved I'd been right not to invest in his damn airplanes. He'd been nothing but a crook.
Alchai stood up. "It has been most pleasant talking to you, Mr. Owen. Let us hope that, in the years to come, we may often chat in friendly fashion from time to time." He saluted and strolled away, looking almost like an overgrown boy scout in his neat khaki uniform.
I finished the last of my bottle and lit a fresh cigarette. Well, at least the bastard had laid his cards on the table. No more funny business from Dave Owen would be tolerated. I'd been given time to play smuggler and pirate. Now it was time to settle down and become a solid, useful citizen. Or get kicked out of the country.
Alchai was a smart cookie, no question about that. Looking back I could realize that he must have known a lot more about what I was doing than I'd had any inkling of. The little bastard had just been waiting to see if I'd straighten out.
Well, I'd straightened out all right-so far as he was concerned. But I'd be damned if I'd turn into a saint just to please him. From now on, after I'd wound up this movie business, I'd play things a lot more coolly than I'd been doing.
If I couldn't outfox a little runt like Alchai I'd deserve to be kicked out of Bangkok. In the long run I'd be able to fool him. I was sure of that.
All the same, it might be a good idea to transfer some of my capital to a Hong Kong bank.
Just in case.
CHAPTER TEN
"When," I asked Jaybee, "is this star of yours-Carlotta-coming out here?"
Jaybee glanced up from the projector he was fussing with. "Next week. She's winding up a picture in Hollywood right now. She had a TV commitment after that, but she's breaking her contract."
"Jaybee," I said. "In the past ten days or so we've come to know each other fairly well. So don't try to snow me. Tell me, honestly, why is a girl who's as big a name as she is flying out here to work on a percentage basis-on speculation."
Jaybee looked at me blankly. "I told you. She thinks highly of my abilities."
"Bull. If those clippings aren't phonies, she's already worked for some of the best directors in Hollywood. And in Europe. She doesn't need you."
Jaybee grinned, showing yellowed, uneven teeth. "Maybe not. But I need her. And she's agreed to come."
So I let it go at that.
"There," said Jaybee. "Now she's okay. Hit the light switch, will you?"
I hit the light switch. A couple of days before Jaybee bad rented an empty warehouse which, with the aid of a few dozen carpenters and his own demoniacal energy, he had transformed into a makeshift studio.
Here he would shoot whatever interior scenes he needed, using cheap, makeshift sets. The fact that they'd be cheap would not, according to Jaybee, affect what he called the "chrome trim" of his movie.
"You see," he'd explained to me a few days before, "a picture, even a low budget picture, has gotta have some fancy looking shots-otherwise people will think jeeze, this picture is sure cheap looking, it can't be much good."
Personally I didn't agree with him-I never wonder how much a movie must have cost to make, or keep track of fancy props or sets. I just watch it. If it's good I enjoy it; if is isn't I leave. But this was Jaybee's picture, and he was supposed to be the expert, so I didn't interrupt.
"But a smart producer-director-writer, like me, can stack the cards so that people aren't conscious of how much money was spent. Let's say you've got two scenes that follow in sequence: an exterior shot where the heroine tells the hero to meet her in a cafe that evening-and an interior shot at the cafe. Now, how would a producer with a million dollar budget shoot these two scenes?"
I told Jaybee I had no idea. I didn't really care, either-but I let him talk.
"I'll tell you," said Jaybee. "He'd probably have the hero and heroine make their date standing outside a dingy looking building in Bangkok. Atmosphere, he'd call it. Then he'd go ahead and build a two hundred grand set for the cafe-a real flossy looking restaurant, with half a hundred extras sitting around pretending to be customers.
"How would I shoot the two scenes? I'd have the hero and heroine make their date standing in front of a big, fancy looking temple-one of those things they've got around here that look like the Taj Mahal dipped in gold paint. And the interior scene I'd shoot in a crummy dive-a set that'll cost me maybe fifty bucks to build. You get the idea?"
"No."
Jaybee sighed. "The point is, don't cost any more to shoot a fancy exterior shot than a crummy one-it's no more trouble to set up a camera in front of a temple than facing a native tenement. But doing it my way I save a fortune, because the fancy shot, the one that makes the audience ooh and ahh, makes up for the cheap shot. Get it?"
I still didn't get it, but I said I did to shut Jaybee up. When he got on the subject of movies, Jaybee was a compulsive talker. Me, I don't dig movies that much.
At least, most movies.
But one kind of movie interested me plenty. Dirty movies. Or, as Jaybee called them, intimate movies. I didn't mind learning all about them. And it looked like I was going to get the opportunity.
Because Jaybee, aside from assembling three travelogue type movies and shooting his RIVER OF LUST, also had the notion of making a number of stag movies while he was in Thailand.
I'd found this out five days ago, by a roundabout method. After I'd introduced Jaybee to the delights of the Jade Grotto, he'd returned the following day-for pleasure and business. After finishing the pleasure part of his visit, he'd gotten down to business by asking to see the madame.
The dainty Japanese girl had informed him that the Jade Grotto had no madame, but did boast a manager-and had telephoned Mr. Chang. Mr. Chang had taken the call while sitting next to me in my office, and I'd told him to hustle over to the Grotto to see what Jaybee wanted.
What Jaybee wanted was simple: he wanted to know if any of the girls at the Jade Grotto would be willing to act in some high class stag movies. Mr. Chang had said yes, of course-and a tentative price per girl had been agreed upon, half of the money to go to the girl, half to Mr. Chang.
Then he'd hustled back to the Scarlet Dragon and reported to me. Understand, Jaybee didn't suspect that I had any connection with the Jade Grotto, other than being a steady customer of the place.
So it had been a bit of shock to him when I'd asked him what the hell he meant by holding out on his new partner-me-by using mutual funds to make movies I wasn't supposed to know anything about.
Jaybee had been nice enough to apologize. "The fact is," he confessed, "I thought at first you were a pretty square type. And no one with any brains gives a square an even break."
I agreed that this was true.
"Now that I know the score, though," he added, "there's no reason we shouldn't work together on these little bonus films. My technical skill and know-how your connections with the local whores. A dynamic combination."
"Jaybee," I said, "I'll admit that the idea of helping you shoot stag movies appeals to me. But isn't the whole idea a little stupid? We'll be risking lousing up the feature movie-and all for the sake of making a few bucks on the side."
"There is," Jaybee agreed, "a slight element of risk. But very, very slight. And you're wrong about one thing: stag movies, well produced stag movies, can make us a fortune."
And he proceeded to give me a lecture on the state of the stag movie business.
According to him, the whole stag movie business had been in a cheap rut for years. What stag movies were around were mostly old, crude, cheap movies.
"Like the girls are wearing bloomers-at the start-and the guys all have handle-bar moustaches, you know? And no sound. Only titles. Like the movies were made in the nineteen twenties. Which they were."
But after World War II, according to Jaybee, stag movies had started to become big business.
"Most of them are shot in Mexico," he explained. "And some of them are really classy jobs. Technicolor, sound, lush sets, lush girls...." He sighed reminiscently. Obviously Jaybee had spent some time in Mexico.
"Would you believe it, some of 'em cost over fifty grand to shoot?"
I wanted to know how, if they cost that much, there was any profit in making them. "Surely there can't be that many rich people with dirty minds."
"Hah. There's lots of creeps around who'd think nothing of shelling out five grand for one night's rental. They invite all their friends. Make it a party, like. And then there's groups. Dirty minded groups. Split among fifty creeps, the rental cost of a big budget stag movie-intimate movie-isn't so much per head. But it adds up plenty to the guy who's renting the film."
"You rent the films yourself?"
He shook his head. "I used to-I mean, a lot of guys who made intimate movies used to do their own bookings. But that's all organized now. They've got syndicate boys handling 'em. You sell 'em the movie outright or else on a fifty-fifty commission basis."
He puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. "It's not quite as profitable the new way-but on the other hand it's a hell of a lot safer. Me, I'm for selling 'em outright. Wipe my prints off the can of film, pocket the cash-and who can prove a thing?"
I said nobody, I guessed. "So you're figuring on making a few, uh, intimate movies in Thailand, huh?"
"You bet. Very discreetly, of course. We won't even hire a local camera man. I can run a movie camera good enough for this kind of job. Keep the whole thing in the family."
"What do you figure to make per picture?"
"Hard to say. Maybe fifty grand-for a real good job. Shoot half a dozen movies, that's three hundred grand easy money. And no taxes. Sweet deal."
It sounded like a sweet deal, all right-if he could get that much dough for each picture, and if nothing went wrong somewhere along the line.
But then, nothing ventured, and so forth. So I ended by okaying the whole deal-provided I was cut in as a full partner. Jaybee screamed at that, at least until I pointed out that I had all the local contacts, in addition to having the Bangkok police department in my pocket.
That was a big laugh, of course-but Jaybee didn't know that. So in the end he'd agreed. My girls and capital, his cinematic know-how-a fifty-fifty split.
Which brings me back to what we were doing sitting in his makeshift projection room.
Up to this point Jaybee and I hadn't shot any actual hot footage. Instead, he'd told me to drop by in order to see what a real craftsman-him-could do with almost nothing.
So I killed the lights and sat back to see what he'd done. And I had to admit he'd done plenty.
All he'd had to work with was bathing beauty contest footage-the reel I'd already seen, plus more shots of other contests-and a few shots of Thai girls bathing that he couldn't use in his travelogues for the excellent reason that the girls weren't wearing any clothes.
Whoever had shot that footage must have gone way up country to get it-or else had shot it without the native girls knowing what he was doing. Because usually the native girls leave their sarongs on when they take a dip in the river.
"Understand," said Jaybee. as pictures began to flash on the screen, "these shots aren't in any kind of sequence. I'll work 'em into the intimate scripts we shoot later. They'll lend a touch of class.
"You see, Dave, a good intimate movie shouldn't be all the time focussing on a gang of people sexing it up in bed. You gotta warm the audience up. Go from mildly sexy to pretty sexy to hot sex-and then hit 'em with the stuff that'll blow out fuses. Note how classy some of these shots are."
I sat and noted.
The first was a good, clear, medium shot of a young Thai girl-maybe seventeen or eighteen-wearing a batik print bikini. She wasn't doing anything but standing still. Probably she'd been waiting for a beauty contest march to begin.
The camera held on her for about a minute and a half while she stood and fidgited and fooled with her hair. It was a nice shot, especially because the color film accented the creamy gold of her youthful flesh, but it didn't strike me as being anything to put in a stag movie, and I said as much.
"Wait," said Jaybee. "Here's the same footage after I got through fooling with it on the enlarger."
The same shot came on the screen-but this time the camera at once began to move in closer and closer.
"How'd you manage that?" I asked.
Jaybee chuckled proudly. "Looks like a dolly shot. or one made with a Zoomar lens, doesn't it? All I did was enlarge just one section. The 35 mm film they've got these days is so fine grain you can blow up one fiftieth to full screen size and it still looks good.
The Thai girl looked good, I had to admit. Because the section of her Jaybee had enlarged to fill the screen was just that portion of her that would have been covered by a large bra if she'd been wearing a large bra. She hadn't been, though-the bikini bra only covered about two-thirds of her pouting young breasts.
They filled the whole screen. Two magnificent mounds of golden cream struggling to escape the thin silk of her bra. It was thin all right. At that magnification you could see every detail of her nipples and aureoles through the fabric. And her breasts weren't still. They rose and fell gently with the rhythm of her breathing, quivering a little each time like thoroughbred race horses.
Then her hand moved into view as she lightly caressed the undersides of each breast. They trembled and swayed like over ripe fruit. My pulse began to pound.
The next shot was one I'd seen before-a close up of lush young female Thai thighs and backsides parading past. But once again Jaybee had "dollied in" by enlarging just one portion of the screen-and the effect was that of watching a river of flesh glide past.
Then he must have done some tricky super-imposing of shots, because a montage of naked thighs filled the screen-looking erotic as hell.
Then came some shots of young nude girls bathing in a river-and this time when the screen "moved in" on individual breasts there was no silk cloth to obscure the view. And, since the girls were splashing and frolicking, the breasts danced and swayed, bounced and jiggled incredibly.
Watching that sea of nipples and quivering flesh that filled the screen gave me a tight feeling in the stomach. My breathing was harsh and irregular.
And these, I kept reminding myself, weren't pictures taken with anything erotic in mind-these were shots Jaybee had simply jazzed up. If he could get this effect from a lot of mild footage-he'd set the screen on fire with some deliberately erotic shots.
"Jaybee," I said hoarsely, "you've convinced me. You're a master craftsman. Let's get started on the real thing."
"Right. What do you say we take some lights and a camera over to the Jade Grotto this afternoon? We can use those crazy phony rock caves of yours for some great effects."
I agreed whole heartedly. "You get the camera and stuff," I told him. "I'll go on ahead and lay the groundwork." Which, starting with Dol Chai and working my way through three other girls, I did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Slender, vivacious, friendly, frank and blessed with a voice that mingles sex and laughter, topped with a dash of Viennese accent.
That was how one of the fan magazines had summed up Carlotta Ernst. Not being a faithful reader of such magazines I don't know how often they tell the truth. But in the ease of Carlotta Ernst they at least came close.
I said as much to her as she sat across from me at a table in the Scarlet Dragon. She laughed (vivaciously), tilted her head back (her throat was as slender as a swan's and not cluttered with feathers) and surveyed me with frank (and friendly) eyes.
Nice eyes, at that: cornflower blue.
"Every time I read something about myself in one of the magazines," she confided, "I find myself thinking: who is this they are writing about? It is surely not me."
"Frankly," I told her, "I'm a little disappointed."
"Oh?" she cocked one eyebrow, her lips still smiling.
"Yeah. The Vienese accent I can spot. But so far you haven't mingled sex and laughter in your voice."
She laughed. "I don't think it can be done-at least, not out of the pages of the fan magazines." She cupped her chin in her hands and studied me, her head cocked a little to one side. "Don't you agree? Laughter is to passion as-as water to fire."
I shrugged. "I don't know. I've known some girls who laughed and teased at the same time."
"Of course. That is different. One can laugh while flirting, while chasing or being chased. But can one laugh while making love? Of course not. One no more feels like laughing than-than eating potato chips while one is making love."
"We could put it to a test," I suggested. "I'll bring a bag of potato .chips and a joke book. And you...."
Her bright blue eyes grew wide with mock innocence. "And me? What must I bring?"
"Not a thing. Just come."
"Ah. Ah. That is an-an off-color joke, is it not? The word come having two meanings." She kept on staring at me with her big, innocent eyes so that for a moment I wasn't sure if she wasn't playing it serious or pulling my leg.
Then she laughed.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"You. You are not at all the big bad soldier of fortune you pretend to be. Just now you looked like a little boy."
I lit a couple of cigarettes. It had been a long time since I'd been a little boy, whether Carlotta Ernst knew it or not. But what the hell, if it pleased her to think I was soft as mush inside, I'd let her.
Because I most definitely wanted to please Carlotta Ernst. Don't get me wrong. I'm not the type of oaf who gets tongue tied when he realizes he's talking to a real, live film star. And I wasn't about to fall in love with her or anything stupid like that.
I wanted to please her for three reasons: first, because she could make or break Jaybee's movie-which I'd begun to think of more and more as my movie. Second, I'd decided she'd be a very, very nice piece to get in bed. And third, one way or another I was going to find out just what it was Jaybee had on her-so I could help myself to some of the gravy. Most of the gravy.
So I grinned boyishly at her and said, well, maybe I didn't look tough on the outside, but I was hard as nails down deep-a confession which women never take seriously.
The idiots.
Carlotta had flown into Bangkok two days previously, causing a near riot at the air field. The Thai's are very motion picture minded; and while I had never heard of the fair Miss Ernst until a week or so ago, apparently every other samlor boy idolized her.
After the newsmen had taken all the pictures they wanted and Carlotta had signed a few dozen autograph books, Jaybee had stepped forward and firmly taken charge.
I'd been right behind him-not only because I was anxious to get a closer look at the hot property who was going to be in our movie, but because I was curious to see how Jaybee and Carlotta would act toward each other.
They'd acted just like I'd figured. Jaybee had played an avuncular role, treating Carlotta as if she were a protege he had personally groomed for stardom. And Carlotta, beneath the toothy smile for the benefit of the public, had given him a look of deep and implacable hatred.
After that brief clash of eyes the two of them had been friendly-even cordial and companionable to the extent of laughing and joking. In public, at least.
But I wasn't fooled. Carlotta had been blackmailed into appearing in RIVER OF LUST. It was the only explanation for that flash of hatred she'd given Jaybee, for her leaving the big money of Hollywood to work on a percentage of peanuts in the jungle.
"Dave," she said curiously, "Dave, how did you happen to come to live here in the first place? Was it-was it a woman?"
I'd settled in Bangkok for the simple reason that I'd figured-rightly-that I could make a pile of loot in Thailand. And the only women involved in my decision had been the whores I had working for me. But most women like to think that no male does anything except because of the love of-or lack of love from-some woman.
So I looked quickly away, as if her question had stirred old memories and half healed wounds. Then I gave her a brisk, artificial smile, as if I were bravely covering up the memory of some babe who'd torn my heart out, and said, '"Why. no. Of course not. I originally came out here looking for. well, for adventure, I guess. Then I stayed because I like the Thai people. Not many Asians are friendly to Americans these days The Thais are."
"Oh," said Carlotta. obviously not believing me and obviously wondering what kind of woman I was trying to forget.
I didn't bother to tell her I never try to forget women. I only try, sometimes, to remember them I have a poor memory. Once a good looking brunette had flung her arms around me in a bar in Hong Kong! thought she'd gone out of her head.
Turned out she was a babe I'd shacked up with for a week a couple of years before. The stupid female had been carrying a torch ever since. It had gone out fast, however, when she realized I not only didn't know her name but couldn't place her face. What the hell, you can't remember the face of every girl you lay, anymore than you can remember every drink you've had.
I realized I was wool gathering and turned back to Carlotta. She was regarding me with a look of sympathetic concern. Obviously she thought I'd been brooding over a lost love.
So now was the time to strike, while tier sentiment was aroused.
"I was wondering ... would you like to take a boat ride? Bangkok is full of canals. Just like Venice. We can rent a motor boat and I'll show you my city by night."
Carlotta gave me a warm smile and got to her feet. "I'd love to."
"Fine. I used to take-"I broke off, as if I'd been about to name my lost love, the lost love I was supposed to be brooding about. "I used to cruise the canals alone when I first came to Bangkok," I finished lamely.
Then I put on a brisk smile and led her out. I hoped it was true about the Austrians being a sentimental people. Maybe Carlotta would end up feeling so sorry for me she'd stop fending me off, the way she had been the past two days.
Maybe. Carlotta was obviously not an easy lay. I had the feeling she'd need quite a bit more softening up first. So on the way out I stopped at the bar and picked up a little softening fluid.
"Mekong," I explained to Carlotta. "A mild local drink. You can sample it while we cruise."
"All right. If it is really mild. I have already had several drinks tonight."
I assured her it was very mild. And it is: about as mild as a hand grenade swallowed whole.
The canals-klongs, the Thai call them-were dug out of the muddy delta of the Chao Phraya river to serve as shopping and marketing centers-places where boats laden with fruits and vegetables can tie up after their trip down river, so that the Bangkok housewives can paddle out to buy and hassle over prices.
And that's still their main function, though in recent years you can buy everything from a repeating rifle to a hot meal on a floating cafe barge-all without leaving the water.
The motor launch pilot cruised us slowly along the crowded waterways, and Carlotta made the expected ohs and ahs at each new burst of lights or cluster of exotic people and goods.
It's interesting, I suppose-a lot more colorful for my money than the Thieves Market, which is where most tourists wind up being taken (in both senses). But I'd seen it all many times before.
I was more interested in watching Carlotta. She clapped her hands excitedly, like a child, when she saw something she liked; got sentimental at the sight of a small child or a cat-the canals are lousy with cats for some reason; and, from time to time, sipped from the bottle of mekong I'd given her.
But not, alas, often enough. She'd decided that, while the taste was interesting, she'd had more than enough to drink that evening already.
So when, several hours later, I escorted her back to her hotel suite, I wasn't too surprised when she vetoed my suggestion that I come in for a nightcap.
I'd kissed her a few times in the motor launch, when we'd been passing through a dimly lit section of a klong. And while she'd gone through the motions of pushing me away, she hadn't pushed hard.
And she raised no objection when I kissed her goodnight outside her hotel door-a long, lingering kiss. But that was all I got. Carlotta, it was dismally clear, was a Nice Girl.
And since I didn't want to push things too fast-for obvious reasons-I told her I'd see her in the morning, went home, and climbed into bed.
Which wasn't as lonely as it sounds since, having anticipated that I most likely wouldn't get what I wanted from Carlotta on our first date, I'd taken the precaution of speaking to the Tiger Lily earlier on.
I hate sleeping alone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Bangkok is quite a few miles from Mandalay and the roads leading to it. Nevertheless dawn often comes up like technicolor thunder over the city, climbing out of the suburbs across the river.
Usually I'm asleep when this happens; but the next morning I woke early for some reason and lay in bed looking at the great crimson and gold clouds hanging low in the sky. My bedroom is on the top floor of my house, lined with tall glass windows-so I had a nice, unobstructed view.
Beside me the Tiger Lily stirred restlessly in her sleep. I turned to glance at her. She was lying on her back, her long black hair partially covering one up-thrust breast. She'd kicked the sheet off during the night, and the whole voluptuous sweep of her naked gold-brown body lay open to my eyes. And touch.
I didn't touch her, though. There'd be time enough for that a little later. Right now I wanted to think.
So I turned back to staring at the dawn crimsoned sky and thought. I thought about what a funny thing killing a human being is.
Maybe funny isn't the right word. Complex is probably closer to what I had in mind.
Take wartime. In wartime you don't think twice about blowing a man's brains out-at least I never did. Given a chance the enemy would kill you, so it was only natural and right never to give him the chance. So you killed him.
I'd killed quite a few enemies when I was in the war. Soldiers for the most part, plus a few enemy civilians who got in the way or who'd annoyed me for some reason.
And it hadn't bothered me at all-in fact, I'd gotten quite a charge out of it.
I'd killed quite a few people in Malaya, too, when the terrorists were hiding out in the jungle a few years back. In those days there were a lot of terrorists and they did a lot of damage-burning villages, slashing rubber trees, shooting up rubber plantation owners.
I hadn't particularly cared how many Malayan villages they'd put to the torch, or how badly the rubber plantation owners got shot up. But I hadn't liked the terrorists because from time to time the rotten bastards had taken a pot shot at me.
That's real stupidity for you. I'd already sold them several hundred automatic rifles and sub-machine guns
-and if they hadn't been so penny pinching to knock me off to avoid paying their debts, I'd have sold 'em plenty more.
But after they pulled that trick I went gunning for them myself, just for the hell of it. And a little profit on the side, of course.
My specialty had been ambushing their supply columns-the ones carrying money. I had about five or six men working for me-real Malayan cut-throats
-and we had a real sweet method of operating.
First we'd hang around in the bush until after a gang of terrorists had raided a plantation. They were always less wary after they'd burned a few buildings and murdered a few European women and children.
Then we'd trail the retreating column and capture a straggler. After a little persuasion the straggler told us when the next supply column was due, and which route it would take. Then we buried what was left of the straggler and made our plans for ambush.
The last attack I'd made all by myself. We'd already collected quite a pile of cash and gold, and my five cut throats had been getting restless. They didn't mind taking risks, but they were anxious to spend some of the loot. We'd been in the jungle too long so far as they were concerned.
It was childishly easy to quiet them down. I'd simply dumped cyanide crystals into their pot of evening curry. The damn stuff was so hotly spiced they never knew the difference. But after they'd swallowed a few handfuls they sure stopped being restless. They'd died quietly, too, which was good because shots or screams might have alerted the terrorist supply column we were waiting for.
The supply column itself had been a cinch. I'd simply hidden myself in the branches of a big tree overlooking the trail and waited. I'd waited fourteen hours-I can be a very patient man at times-and then they'd showed.
There were ten of them, sweating under the burden of the knapsacks they were carrying. I'd waited until they'd all filed past and had their backs to me, and then tossed a couple of grenades.
That took care of six of them. The other four I'd sprayed with my tommy gun. One of them had been a good looking girl of about sixteen or seventeen. I'd sprayed her, too. What the hell, she was a terrorist, and had most likely killed her share of women and children.
I hadn't lost any sleep over her.
But I'd never killed-or planned to kill-anyone I knew personally. Anyone I could call a friend. Killing someone you know and like. I realized, is a lot different from shooting up strangers.
Which was why, I decided, my mind kept recoiling from the idea of killing Jaybee.
The notion of killing Jaybee had come to me slowly-not as a plan of action I consciously put forward to myself, but rather as the result of cold logic. As the result of accidental circumstances, as it were.
In fact, he himself was largely to blame.
After I'd agreed to put up whatever money he needed to film RIVER OF LUST (which turned out to be more than twenty-five grand, as I'd suspected), we'd drawn up a partnership agreement.
Jaybee had originally held out for a 75 per cent-25 per cent split, in his favor. I'd countered with a fifty-fifty split demand. He'd howled at that. With some reason, I suppose, since he was putting up a little better than half the money in addition to supplying his technical services.
On the other hand, I had him over a barrel-he needed my money bad. So in the end he agreed to a 60 per cent-40 per cent split, his favor, which was what I'd wanted all along.
Up to that point the idea of killing Jaybee hadn't even entered my head.
Then Jaybee had suggested we sign a regular partnership agreement providing that, in the event either of us should die or get killed before the movie was entirely finished, the surviving partner got everything.
That had started me thinking. The first thing I'd thought of, naturally, was whether Jaybee had any funny ideas In the back of his head about knocking me off.
I'd decided not, finally. In my time I've dealt with a lot of crooks and crooked people. Jaybee was a sharpie, no question about that; he'd swindle his grandmother and blackmail a blind beggar-but he wasn't a killer. Particularly he wasn't a cold-blooded killer type. Jay-bee's emotions were all on the surface. He wasn't the type to sit down and plot the death of a man.
That conclusion relieved my mind. But even then I didn't give a thought to arranging his accidental death.
That idea came after Jaybee had, in addition to the partnership agreement, had us both insured for a hundred grand. Both this and the partnership clause were, apparently, standard procedure in movie making where two or more backers are involved-according to Jaybee, a movie company can be wiped out if anything should delay the shooting schedule; that is, anything like a legal battle as to who owns what. Hence the survivor-take-all agreement, plus the insurance to cushion any time loss.
All routine to Jaybee.
Grist for thought to me.
In the most recent version of the RIVER OF LUST script (Jaybee had already rewritten it twice, following "my" suggestions for the most part), the bitch-heroine had a scene like this:
B.H.: You know darling, I have a feeling it might be best-best for both of us-if we should find my husband dead up there in the jungle.
Hero: Yeah? And what if we find him alive?
B.H.: Why-we bring him down river with us, of course. But as you said yourself, the river is very, very dangerous. Wouldn't it be tragic if he should fall overboard and drown?
Hero: Yeah, real tragic.
B.H.: Darling! I knew you'd see things my way.
See what I mean about Jaybee himself putting the idea into my head?
I lay back comfortably, listening to the . Tiger Lily's soft breathing beside me, and weighed the pros and cons of Jaybee's death.
Naturally it would be a catastrophe if he should have an accident before he finished the movie. But if he should happen to drown when the movie was complete-or complete but for a few feet I could have some flunky shoot-it could be damn profitable to me.
Item: I'd own RIVER OF LUST outright. Since I already knew which distributor he was planning on dealing with, I could handle that part myself without much trouble-and collect 100 per cent of the profits. Perhaps half a million bucks.
Item: I'd collect on the insurance policy-which, with the double indemnity clause for accidental death, would amount to two hundred grand.
Item: I'd own the stag movies Jaybee would have completed by that time.
I'd own them for the simple reason that nobody but me would know they even existed. Nobody who mattered, that is.
I might have a little trouble in selling them-since Jaybee had refused to talk about his contacts in the "intimate" movie business. But not much trouble. I've spent a little time in Mexico and I speak Spanish. It shouldn't be too tough to make the right contacts. Even if I got a little less for each movie than Jaybee might have gotten-I'd get to keep all of it, not just half. Maybe two hundred grand.
Items like those add up. Five hundred thousand plus two hundred thousand plus two hundred thousand. Nine hundred thousand dollars.
That was on one side of the scale.
On the other side was the fact that I'd grown rather fond of Jaybee, and the idea of killing him didn't sit well with me.
Well, I didn't have to decide right away. There'd be time enough later, once the movie was almost finished. There were a lot of other things to do in the meantime.
For a start I could wake up the Tiger Lily.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Telling her to wake up didn't do a damn bit of good. She just murmured plaintively and went right on sleeping.
I found a loose feather that had worked its way through the pillow case and tried tickling her breasts. Nothing. I tried tickling her nipples.
That got me another murmur, not a plaintive one this time-but she was still asleep. So I threw away the damn feather and began teasing her nipples with my lips. This time she stretched languorously in her sleep making pleased murmuring sounds. I toyed with her nipples with my lips and tongue for another minute or so.
Even in her sleep she was a highly charged female-because within thirty seconds or so her nipples began to push erect.
That gave me more surface for my lips and tongue to work on. I let them work-if you can call it work.
And still she slept.
So I bit her.
Not hard, of course-just hard enough to jolt her into angry wakefulness.
"Gah-dam!" she said, sitting bolt upright. "Why you bite Tee Ell?"
I leered at her.
She glared back at me, then glanced over at my bedside clock.
"Is the middle of the night!" She swore in Thai. I grinned and swore back at her. After a while she began to grin herself. Then she lay down again and stretched sleepily.
"Okay. Just so you be quick. Then we can sleep again, no?"
I squatted on the bed beside her and began to caress her breasts. In the reddish dawn light they looked copper-gold. Her flesh was as taut and polished to the touch as buffed copper, too. I stroked and kneaded her warm flesh for a while, concentrating on her satin-soft shoulders, her upper arms, her full, drum-taut breasts.
Then I let my hands stray lower, stroking her as an old Chinese mandarin might stroke a jade tactile piece.
I slid my fingers softly over the shallow, gently convex bowl of her stomach, over the perfumed, yielding flesh of her thighs.
"Ah," said Tee Ell, "that is good. Very good."
I let the tips of my fingers trace circles and spirals across her glossy, copper flesh, knowing that each fingertip must feel golden hot to her now quivering body.
She gasped with pleasure and her soft, shapely legs parted in silent entreaty.
I knelt over her, bathing my face in the warmth of her breasts, hearing the soft animal sounds she was making low in her throat as the passion-fury mounted within her.
I bit her breasts gently, and this time she didn't protest but dug her fingernails into my back to pull me closer.
I slid my face up the surface of her body to kiss her neck and shoulders, then thrust the top of my head down into the pillow beside her, so that all my weight was supported by my head and my knees, leaving my hands free to roam.
My hands roamed.
Under me Tee Ell's body quivered and she began to whimper and groan in a frenzy of anticipation.
"Quick, Dave!" she gasped. "Come now. Thrust, thrust deep!"
I slid my hands down to cup the plump hemispheres of her buttocks. "I thought," I said "that you wanted to sleep."
She was in no mood to joke. "Dave, please!" Come to think of it, I was in no mood to joke myself. So I squeezed a double handful of buttocks and settled forward and down.
Tee Ell hissed with satisfaction, and for a moment.
I couldn't remember what the sound reminded me of and then it came to me-it was like the sound you hear in the sword-makers' shops in Karachi, when the sword smith plunges a red hot sword blade into a tub of warm brine to temper it.
Not that Tee Ell's writhing and churning in any way resembled a tub of brine.
I moved my head so that my face was pillowed on the heaving softness of her breasts. Almost all of my weight was on her now, but I'm certain she wasn't conscious of it.
She was conscious of nothing save the spasms of frenzy that swept through her. Then she must have reached some new peak of ecstasy, because she half screamed and her body bucked upward like a runaway trip hammer and at the same instant I felt almost unbearably wonderful pulses of fire surge through me.
For a long moment we lay there, both too spent from our exertions to move, fighting for breath as we savored the slowly dying glow of fulfillment.
Then I slowly rolled off the soft mattress of her body to enjoy the morning breeze.
Beside me Tee Ell sighed contentedly. A good girl, Tee Ell, I reflected sleepily, a real fine girl. I ought to see that Jaybee gave her an acting role. In the feature film, that is.
She'd already worked in a couple of Jaybee's stag movies.
I yawned a couple ol times and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was ten o'clock when i awoke for the second time, and the sun was already turning the city into an outdoor Turkish bath. I showered and dressed without bothering to wake Tee Ell, and went downstairs for breakfast-a meal I usually eat outside in my garden.
There was nothing in the mail except an ad from a boat rental service and a postcard from Louise Jesperson, post marked Tokyo. I tossed them both in the waste paper basket without bothering to read them.
After breakfast I took a samlor to the converted warehouse where Jaybee had set up his headquarters. He was busy interviewing actors for bit parts in RIVER OF LUST.
"Dave!" he yelled when he caught sight of me. "We're in luck. Come into my office a minute."
I walked into his office, closed the door and lit up a cigarette.
"Dave," he chortled happily, "I've got good news. We get our pick of those actors I wanted after all. What's more, I can get 'em to work dirt cheap, too-they're desperate."
I sat back and grinned at him. "Tell me about it."
The actors he was talking about were members of a travelling theatrical company-half American, half Australian. They'd arrived in Bangkok three days ago, given a couple of performances (Hamlet and Blithe Spirit), and then prepared to move on.
This despite Jaybee's entreaties that all or most of them work for him for a few days in bit parts.
It wasn't that the actors weren't willing-the owner-manager of the troupe, a sour-faced little Australian, was the one who'd thumbed him down.
The Australian had pointed out that, while the extra money would be nice, he had contractual obligations to meet-the company was already booked to appear in Djakarta, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and points South.
"Once I sign a contract," the little Australian had explained, "I stick to it. 'Ave to. If I didn't I wouldn't 'all catch 'ell from the theater owners. They'd never trust me again. I'd be through, washed up. Might as well jump in the bay."
He had had a very thick Australian accent, and had pronounced "bay" as if it were spelled "buy." This prompted Jaybee to ask him if he'd heard the story about the American flyer who'd been wounded during the war and came to in an Australian hospital.
The Australian said he hadn't.
"Well," said Jaybee, "this flyer comes to and he thinks his number is up. So he calls to the nurse and says, 'Nurse, did they bring me here to die?' And the nurse says, 'No, they brought you yesterdie.'"
For some reason this hadn't endeared Jaybee to the little Australian, who had stormed out of Jaybee's office muttering darkly about blokes what made fun of the way other blokes talk.
"Well," continued Jaybee, "guess what happened? That little runt turned out to be a crook. Took the morning plane to Calcutta with the company's payroll in his bag. Now all his actors are stranded without any money. They're desperate. We can get 'em to work for a few tics a day. Nice piece of luck for us, eh?"
"Jaybee," I said patiently, "when you've been in the East as long as I have, you'll learn that you make your own luck. Why do you suppose the Aussie left town so fast?"
Jaybee looked puzzled. "It is a funny one. I heard tell he got roughed up last night by a couple of thugs. Maybe they scared him out of town."
"Of course they did," I agreed. "They broke his nose, dislocated one arm, kneed him in the groin, and told him to get the first plane out of town or they'd finish the job."
Jaybee's jaw dropped open. "They were your thugs?"
I nodded. I didn't bother to add that the little Aussie hadn't taken all of his bankroll with him, either. He'd taken a third. One third I'd kept for luck, and the other third I'd given to the thugs in payment for the nice job they'd done.
Jaybee let the air out of his lungs in a long whistle. "Jeeze you play rough. I never figured that-"
"Listen," I interrupted. "You wanted to get those actors cheap didn't you? The Aussie was in the way, wasn't he? Okay. What's your beef?"
Jaybee opened and closed his mouth a few times, then shook his head slowly. "No beef, Dave. I'm just glad you're on my team. I'd hate to have you as an enemy."
Then he brightened up and began talking about how he was going to use his new found flock of willing-to-work-cheap actors in RIVER OF LUST.
I listened with half an ear. I was thinking that I'd been right-Jaybee was a sharpie, but not the kind who'd ever use violence to get his way.
He was planning on using his Caucasian bit players in the opening scenes of his movie for the most part, he explained. "Like, Carlotta gets off the plane in Bangkok, and she starts making inquiries about who'd be a good man to take her up river. They all tell her this soldier of fortune character is the man she wants. So she hunts around looking for him."
"Why?" I asked. "Why can't you have her find him right off?"
"Because," said Jaybee-in the same tone of patient condescension I'd just used in talking to him, "because we can do three things by having her spend half a reel looking for this soldier of fortune character."
He held up three fingers.
"One. We can get in a lot of swell shots of Bangkok-Carlotta walking past the Royal Palace, Carlotta riding by the temple of the Emerald Buddha in a samlor, Carlotta in a motor launch cruising up and down the klongs-stuff like that. We work in exotic backgrounds legitimately, like they're part of the story."
He lowered one finger.
"Two. We can show Carlotta's character. How? By how she acts when she's looking for this guy. Like she passes this starving beggar, and the beggar asks her for a hunk of rice, and she just stares at him coldly. Then she flips her cigarette butt at him and walks on. Get it? Right away the audience knows she's a baddie."
I objected that there weren't any starving beggars in Bangkok.
"In my movie there will be," said Jaybee, lowering a second finger. "Finally, we can show what kind of a character this soldier of fortune is. Like, every door Carlotta knocks on some good looking chick answers and says no, he isn't there, he just left. Get it? Without even showing the guy we've let the audience know he's hot with women. Then we clinch it by having Carlotta finally track him down. And what's he doing? He's necking with some chick, that's what."
"Tiger Lily," I said. "I want you to use her in the movie."
"Sure, sure," Jaybee agreed. "So the hero's necking with Tiger Lily-his steady girl. Now, here's how I'll shoot this bit. The hero's necking this girl-Tiger Lily and it's obvious he's beginning to get somewhere. Like, he keeps saying come on, baby, what d'ya say?' and Tiger Lily keeps saying no, but she doesn't really mean it you can tell. And then he asks her again and she says okay. So what happens?"
"He lays her."
"No, no. He bends over her to kiss her-and then Carlotta sticks her head in the window and says are you-" Jaybee frowned, consulted his script. "Never can remember the hero's name," he explained. "Oh, yeah. Rodney Steel. So anyway, Carlotta says, 'Are you Rodney Steel? I wanna talk to you. About a business deal.' "
Jaybee leaned forward and stabbed the air with his cigar. "What do we have now? I'll tell you. Conflict. That's what we have. The hero-Rodney-doesn't want to leave this chick he's just turned on. He argues. Carlotta argues. Conflict."
"Is that good?"
"Life blood of drama, that's all. Can't have a movie without conflict." He puffed contentedly on his cigar. "Understand?"
I said yes, I understood perfectly. Personally I didn't see that it made any difference whether the movie's hero and heroine conflicted or not. But most likely Jaybee knew what he was talking about. He'd better, if he didn't want to get what the Aussie had gotten. In spades.
"What about the hero of this epic-Rodney-you found an actor to play him yet?"
Jaybee shook his head. "I can't make up my mind. There're are two leading men in this acting company who might do. But I'm not happy about them. One's an American-got just the right voice for the part.
Trouble is, he looks kind of wishy washy. The other's an Australian. He looks like a soldier of fortune all right. But he's got this thick Aussie accent. And whoever heard of an Australian soldier of fortune?"
"I've met quite a few," I told him. "Tough hombres, some of them."
"Sure, sure. But back in the States they think only Americans become soldiers of fortune. The audience won't go for an Aussie hero, anyway. Not unless he's played by an American actor faking an accent."
"Well," I said, "how about using the Australian to act out the scenes-and then take out his voice and have the American actor speak his lines?"
Jaybee nodded glumly. "I thought of that. Trouble is, any kind of dubbing is real tricky. Like the lip movements don't always match the sound." He sighed. "Still, I may have to end up doing it."
"Yeah." I said. "Too bad you don't have anything on a big name Hollywood actor the way you do with Carlotta."
"You can say that again," agreed Jaybee, "if only-" he broke off and glared at me. "For the last time, I do not have anything on Carlotta. She's appearing in this movie because she respects my talent. Period."
"Uh huh," I said.
I got up and peeked out through the door to the room where Jaybee had the acting troupe waiting. There were about ten or twelve of them, sitting nervously smoking on some long benches.
Two of the women were young-a brassy, overstuffed blonde and a slender brunette.
"Hey," I said, "two of 'em look real cute."
Jaybee leered. "Especially that blonde, eh? I've got her sewed up, fellah. Had an interview with her yesterday-told her the size of her part was up to her. She got the hint."
He sighed reminiscently. "Boy, can that dame perform in bed. We played games most of last night."
I said, "Are you going to use her-in the film, I mean?"
"Sure. I'm going to use 'em all. Why not? I can get 'em all dirt cheap."
"How about that little brunette. You cast her yet?"
Jaybee nodded and shuffled through some sheets of paper on his desk. "Hell, I cast most of 'em just from skimming through their publicity photographs yesterday." He extracted a sheet of paper and frowned at it.
"Here it is. James, Alice. I got her tabbed for three spots. As an airline hostess right at the start of the picture. As a tourist girl walking along the street, and then a speaking role as a Eurasian girl."
I said, "Isn't the audience going to snicker when the same people keep cropping up in different roles?"
"They'll never know. Like, the first shot, she'll have her back to the camera-the audience will just see a brunette airline hostess in a tight skirt checking off passengers as they get off the plane.
"As a tourist girl she'll be wearing maybe a white dress or something and walking by fairly fast. Maybe I'll have her put her hair up.
"Then as the Eurasian girl, she'll have her hair down. And I'll spray her with brown make-up. The audience will think they've seen three different girls."
He puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. "Hell, I could probably use her a couple more times if I can round up a blonde wig."
I lit a cigarette and did some thoughtful puffing of my own. "You told her you're going to use her yet?"
Jaybee shook his head. "Not yet. Why? You figuring on pulling the casting couch bit? Won't work. The blonde told me Alice-is that her name? yeah, Alice-is a real cold chick. Death before dishonor. That sort of thing."
"Bull. They'll all take dishonor before death. Or going broke. Or going hungry. Or not having any pocket money."
"You," said Jaybee, "are one hell of a cynic when it comes to women. And ten dollars says you don't get anywhere with that chick."
"Done," I said. I studied the end of my cigarette for a minute. "Look," I told him, "call in everybody else first, huh? Leave this Alice to last."
"Okay. Then what?"
"Then go out the back way."
Jaybee frowned. "You're aren't planning on raping this chick or anything, are you?"
I shook my head. "No. I'm just planning on winning ten bucks. The easy way."
Jaybee grinned. "It may be easy for you-if you swing it. But I've got a hunch it's going to be real hard for little Alice."
He was so right.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It took Jaybee a little more than an hour to call in the rest of the acting troupe one by one, hand them mimeographed copies of the script when they had a speaking role, and tell them when to report to work.
All of them turned out to be flat broke-the Aussie apparently had been in the habit of paying them every two weeks, and he'd skipped right before payday-and all gratefully seized the few tics advance Jaybee gave them.
Then Jaybee winked at me, leered at the studio cot on the other side of the office, and left. By the back door.
I took a quick peek through a crack in the door to make sure the little brunette was still there, made a phone call to Mr. Chang and gave him certain instructions, and then settled down at Jaybee's desk to read the newest version of RIVER OF LUST.
I read for a little more than twenty minutes before a tentative knock on the door interrupted me.
I got up and opened the door to the waiting room. Alice James gave me a nervous smile. "I-I didn't mean to disturb you. It's just that all the others have gone and I've been waiting-I mean-" she broke off and chewed her lip.
"Good Lord," I said. "Didn't anyone tell you to go home? I'm afraid we've finished casting. Sorry."
Alice flinched as if she'd been kicked in the stomach.
"Look," I said. "Come in and have a drink. Maybe we can work something out."
She flashed me a grateful smile and walked in. I closed the door behind her and busied myself pouring a couple of drinks from Jaybee's make-shift bar.
"Sit down," I said. "Make yourself comfortable." She nodded and sat gingerly on the edge of the studio couch.
"Where-where's Mr. Weber?"
"Jaybee? He's gone for the day. I told you, we're all through casting." I walked over and handed her a glass of whiskey and soda. "Here. Have a stinger. Sorry there's no ice, Miss-"
"James. Alice James." She sipped her stinger thirstily while I studied her.
She looked about eighteen or nineteen-a coed type. Shoulder-length black hair, a shy, sensitive face, large eyes. She was wearing a loose fitting blouse and a flaring cotton print skirt that made it hard to tell much about her figure.
What I could see of it though-a tiny waist and a pair of trim calves-looked good.
I said, "My name's Owen. Dave Owen. I'm Jay-bee's partner."
"How do you do, Mr. Owen. You said perhaps something could be worked out. You mean, all the casting isn't complete yet?"
I grinned at her and sat down next to her on the couch. "Let's talk about you first," I said. "How old are you, Alice?"
She -edged away from me a little, without making it too obvious what she was doing, and said, "Twenty-one?"
I laughed. "Am I supposed to guess? Try again. And this time tell me the truth."
She colored. "Nineteen. But I can play much older roles. On the stage I've often played old women."
"It's easier to fake age on the stage than in a movie," I remarked, echoing something I'd heard Jaybee say. "How much experience have you had, Alice? Tell me about yourself." I moved a little closer.
Alice -edged away a bit more-another few inches and she'd fall flat on her fanny-and told me about herself. She was Australian, born in Sydney. Her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was seventeen. They'd left her a little money, which she'd promptly invested in acting lessons. Then, after doing quite a few unpaid little theater parts-and running out of money-she'd joined Max's touring company. Max was the name of the little Aussie I'd coaxed into skipping town.
"Um," I said. "Not much experience." I shook my head ruefully.
Alice looked at me pleadingly. "Even a tiny role-just a walk-on would help. I need-" She stopped.
"You need money," I finished. "No one in Australia who can help you out?"
She shook her head. "If I can just make passage money home I can get a job in Sydney. I-I don't want to have to go back as a D.B.P. It'd be thrown in my face the rest of my career."
"What's a D.B.P.?"
"Distressed British Person. You go round to the consulate and tell them you're broke and they ship you back home. Third class, with a lecture. It's awfully humiliating. Isn't there any part I can play?"
I pretended to think. "There's one role you might be able to play. We have a girl for it already, but we're not happy with her. You'd play a Eurasian girl."
"I could do that easy," she said eagerly. "I played Tondelayo in a version of White Cargo we did. I look just fine in dark make-up."
"Um," I said. "Do you mind walking around a bit, so I can see how you move?"
Alice got quickly to her feet and began to walk around Jaybee's office.
"Not so fast," I said. "Walk slow. Slink a little."
She slunk around the room. She wasn't, it was clear, the slinking type. She must have made a hell of a funny Tondelayo. She'd probably worn a sarong from neck to ankle. I was beginning to enjoy myself.
"Let's see your legs." I said. She stopped, blushed, hesitated, then clenched her jaw and pulled up her skirt to just above her knees. "Higher."
The skirt moved up another inch, and Alice turned a deeper shade of crimson.
"Higher, for pete's sake," I snapped.
Alice closed her eyes and pulled the skirt half-way up her thighs. They were nice looking thighs, youthful, creamy fleshed, soft looking.
"Okay," I said. "You have very good legs, Alice."
"Thank you." She dropped the skirt and the flush faded from her cheeks.
"Now," I said, "take off your blouse, please."
Back came the blush. "My-my blouse?"
"Blouse. Look, do you want the part or don't you?"
She chewed on her lip for a while. Then she took a deep breath and started unbuttoning her blouse. Another deep breath. Then she took it off.
I whistled appreciatively. Her breasts were grapefruit sized, and a hell of a lot more shapely. I'd never have guessed from the loose blouse she'd been wearing. Unfortunately they were only partially in view. Alice was wearing a conservative bra. A white cotton bra. She was obviously the white cotton bra type.
"Good," I said. "Now, take off the bra a moment, please."
"I will not!" She glared at me, her face still bright crimson, and quickly held her blouse in front of her.
"Alice," I said. "The Eurasian girl in our movie appears in several scenes wearing a half sarong. A half sarong, as you doubtless know, begins at the waist."
Alice looked confused. "You can't." She said. "I mean, you couldn't possibly have a scene of a girl without a-without any top. Not in an American movie."
"Alice," I said gentry, "movie censorship has eased a great deal recently. And even if some scenes should be cut out in the States, they'll be left in when the picture's shown in Europe. It's a fine role," I went on. "One any actress would be happy to play. Now, aren't you willing to bare your bosom for the sake of your art?" She stared at me sullenly. "You're making fun of me."
I grinned at her.
She blushed again and worked on her lip some more. "All right. I'll wear a half sarong in the movie."
"Fine. Now Alice. Try to put yourself in my place. How would it be if. after I'd twisted Jaybee's arm to hire you, after we've fired the girl we've already engaged-after all that, how do you think I'd feel if you walked onto the set in a half sarong-and it turned out you need falsies to look good."
"I'm not wearing falsies," she said quietly. She kept her eyes focused about two feet above my head.
"That's what you say," I told her. "I need to know for sure. Now, there are two simple ways I can find out. I can walk up to you and squeeze your bra a couple of times. Or you can stand there, ten feet away, and take the damn thing off."
Alice closed her eyes again. Then she reached behind her and loosened the bra clasp. A pause. A deep breath. Then she whipped off the bra.
"Beautiful," I said. "Simply beautiful." And they were. They looked like two mounds of whipped cream, topped with halt cherries.
"Satisfied?" she asked, her voice low and husky-as if she were close to tears.
"Just about. Walk up and down just a little before putting your armor back on. And tell me-do you always close your eyes when you take off your bra?"
Her eyes snapped open and she glared at me. Then she turned on her heel and stalked the length of the room angrily, turned and stalked back.
Her breasts bounced enticingly with each step.
She stopped about five feet away from me and stood glaring at me, hands on hip. "Now are you satisfied, Mr. Owen? Or do I have to do anything else to get the part?" She was so angry she forget to be modest.
I laughed at her. "Yes," I said. "Come to think of it, there is one other little thing you'll have to do."
I told her what that was, using simple four letter words so there'd be no possibility of her misunderstanding.
She burst into tears.
In a way I almost felt sorry for her. She looked so frail and pathetic standing there, her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break. Most likely she was hungry; I knew she was flat broke.
And, alone and friendless in a strange city, after being humiliated and made to half undress, she'd been propositioned in the crudest way.
As I say. she looked quite pitiful standing there. On the other hand, she looked kind of funny, too.
So I laughed.
That snapped her out of her sobs enough so that she began to struggle back into her bra. She also began to tell me, between sobs, just how despicable she thought I was.
I yawned. "Stow it, Alice," I said. "Next thing I know you'll be telling me you're a virgin."
"I am," she said defiantly. "And I suppose you think that's funny-that a girl should have some sense of decency and-and-"
"Frigidity?" I volunteered.
She ignored me and concentrated on trying to re-fasten her bra, the clasp of which seemed to be giving her trouble.
"Need any help?" I asked cheerfully.
She opened her mouth to reply, but I never learned what it was she was about to say. Because at that instant Mr. Chang opened the door and walked in.
Mr. Chang wearing the uniform of an Inspector of Police.
"Ah, so," he said toothily, "Meestair Owen. I haff dropped by to see iff-" he pretended to see Alice for the first time and broke off.
"Who," he barked, "iss thiss?"
Mr. Chang was obviously enjoying himself-the curious Fu Manchu accent he was using was his own idea; at least, I hadn't said anything to him about camping it up.
I managed to keep a straight face and said, "A girl-named Alice."
"Ah sooo," muttered Mr. Chang, looking Alice up and down distastefully "You haff yellow card, yess?"
Alice clutched her bra to her and stared at him with frightened eyes. "Yellow-card?"
Mr. Chang made an impatient clicking sound with his mouth. "All plostitutes muss haff yellow card. Iss rule."
"But I-I'm not a prostitute. I'm an actress."
Mr. Chang sneered. "All plostitutes say 'me actless'-stoopid gurls." He stabbed a finger at her. "You haff job? Money? No? Then you plostitute." He grabbed her roughly by her arm. "Come wiss me."
I bit my tongue to keep from snickering. Mr. Chang was obviously a born actor. I made a mental note to have Jaybee cast him in the movie.
Aloud I said, "Look here. Inspector. Don't be too hard on the girl. She's new in town-doesn't know the ropes yet."
Mr. Chang shook his head impatiently. "Ignorlance of law iss no excuse. Plostitute no haff yellow card, plostitute go to jail six munns." He leered at Alice. "You like our jail. I dlop by effry day see you." He poked her playfully in the stomach. "I think effry night, too. Giff you chance keep in plactice."
Alice dissolved into tears again.
"Look here, Inspector," I said. "I was thinking of using this girl in my movie. If I do that, will you lay off her?"
Mr. Chang frowned. "Would rather lay on her." I glared at him. I didn't want him lousing up the scene with corny jokes. "Okay," he said quickly, "you giff her job-then she no plostitute."
I turned to Alice. "You want that job we were talking about?"
She stopped crying and stared at me with dazed eyes.
I slapped her hard across the face. "Answer me.
You want that job-on my terms?"
She kept staring at me, her eyes wide and glazed. For an instant I was afraid she'd flipped her lid-her eyes were almost those of an insane woman. Then the madness seemed to drain out of them, leaving only a young, frightened girl.
"Yes," she said, so softly I had to strain to hear her. "Yes, I want the job."
Mr. Chang managed to look like a shark that's just been cheated out of a hunk of raw meat. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
I grinned at Alice. "All right. I've done you a favor. Now you do me one. Undress."
She turned to look at me, her eyes staring right through me. Then she lowered her hands that had been cupping the still unfastened bra to her breasts. The bra slid to the floor.
"Now the skirt," I said encouragingly.
She unfastened a button, slid down a zipper, and the skirt crumpled to the floor at her feet. All she had on now was a pair of panties Conservative white cotton panties.
I told her to take them off.
She took them off.
"Now," I said, "undress me."
Her hands were trembling so much she could hardly unfasten a button. But I was in no hurry. I just stood there and let her fumble. It took her about five minutes to get me completely undressed.
By then she was trembling ail over, like a person with fever chills.
"Lie down on the couch," I told her.
She lay down. She was still shaking a little, and a muscle in her forearm was twitching. She was sure taking the whole thing big.
I stood looking down at her as she lay, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. She looked like a sweet deal lying there, with her big, creamy breasts jutting skyward. And those plump, youthful buttocks of hers ought to provide a nice cushioned ride.
I stood staring down at her for maybe a minute. She didn't say a word-hadn't said a word, in fact, since Mr. Chang had left. Her eyes were wide open, and as I watched a couple of tears formed and slid down the sides of her temples.
I swore, walked back over to the desk, found a cigarette and lit it. Alice glanced quickly over in my direction once, then turned her head to stare at the ceiling again.
She looked like a patient waiting for a surgeon to stick a knife into her, without anesthetic. Which was probably just how she felt about the whole deal.
I swore. Maybe Carlotta was right. Maybe I was soft as mush inside. Hell, it wasn't that. It was just that virgins are usually poor lays anyway.
I reached for my clothes and began to dress. "Okay, kid," I said. "Audition's over. You get the part." I pulled a wad of bills out of my pocket and dropped it on the desk. "Here's an advance. Report to Jaybee in the morning."
She sat up and gaped at me. She was still gaping when I walked out, swearing to myself.
I swore at the samlor boy all the way to the Jade Grotto. I didn't stop swearing until a cute little Chinese girl wth five years experience behind every swing of her hips relieved some of my tension.
What made me mad wasn't so much losing ten bucks. It was knowing that Jaybee would undoubtedly snicker rudely when I paid him.
He did.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Carlotta tightened her arms about me, thrusting her pointed young breasts hard against my chest. Her head tilted back, sending her white-blonde hair rustling softly over her shoulders.
"Kiss me," she murmured. "Kiss me, you foolish boy!"
I kissed her. A slow, lingering kiss. I tried to get my tongue into her mouth but she wasn't having any. I butted my tongue against her teeth for a while, then gave up. And stopped kissing her.
She tilted her head back again. "Caress me," she whispered, "caress me with your eyes...."
"Suits me," I said. "Then can we-?"
"Cut!" screamed Jaybee. "Cut and kill the sound! Bury the sound!" He stormed up to me.
"What's the matter, Dave? Can't you remember your lines? Can't you remember a few stinking lines?"
I let go Carlotta, who was trying hard not to giggle, and turned to face him.
"Sure I remember the lines," I said. "But like you said, they stink. Caress me with your eyes. What the hell kind of talk is that?"
"Listen." said Jaybee. "It's my movie, my script, and I'm the director. And producer. What I say goes. And I say it's a powerful, moving script. Full of-of the poetry of turgid emotions. Carlotta says 'Caress me with you eyes'-and then you look her up and down, caressing like. And then you say, 'I've never known a woman like you, Greta. Half child, half woman, half animal ... ' Got it?"
"Jaybee," said Carlotta. "Jaybee, if I'm half of three different things, that makes me a one and a half person, doesn't it?"
"Precisely," agreed Jaybee. "You're a hundred and fifty per cent, uh, person. In the movie. Now, let's get on with the take." He turned and waved at the technical crew. "Dave, do you realize how much money we're wasting? Do you realize that just because you don't like your lines and crack jokes we've lost thousands and-"
He stopped and glanced around the set. At the nonunion Thai cameraman, the non-union Thai sound man, the non-union Thai technicians and prop men.
He lowered his voice. "We've lost several dollars. Now," he went on, raising his voice, "let's finish the take, okay? With my lines."
I said okay, and we finished the take. With Jaybee's lines.
Needless to say, Jaybee had found a new hero for his movie. Me.
I'd laughed in his face the first time he's suggested it. Tn fact, I still laughed at the idea from time to time. But I'd gone along with the gag.
"Dave," Jaybee had said, "Dave, don't get me wrong. I don't think you're a natural actor. You'll never make Marlon cry softly into his pillow at night, weeping tears of jealous rage.
"But-and this is an important but-you're all I've got. The Australian actor just won't work out. He looks tough, but jeeze, when he walks he swings his hips. And when he smiles he simpers. And the other guy just doesn't look the part.
"Also," he went on, "you're not bad looking in an ugly, rugged sort of way. You look a little like a chewed up Jean Gabin, but younger and without the French accent. And you're a natural for the part. Hell, you are a soldier of fortune."
"Yeah," I'd told him. "But what do I know about acting?"
Jaybee had laughed in my face. "Acting is what you do on a stage. You don't have to know how to act to be in a movie-or to star in a movie. Just so you can read lines. You can read lines, can't you? You're not the shrinking violet type no's going to start blushing and stammering just because a camera's pointed his way? Of course not. You're an extrovert. A natural extrovert. You don't give a damn about anything."
"Right, Jaybee. And particularly, I don't give a damn about acting in this movie. And that's that."
But in the end I'd given in. What the hell, what did I have to lose? I figured it wouldn't be any great trick to just act natural and play myself-which was all Jaybee said I had to do.
But I sure hated reading some of the goofy lines he'd written, and he'd written plenty of 'em.
There was one nice thing about the whole deal, though. It put me in constant contact with Carlotta. Bodily contact. And, bad though Jaybee's script was, it did have one virtue: it was lousy with love scenes.
Tender love scenes, tough love scenes, torrid love scenes-and, as in the scene we'd just finished shooting, some pretty stupid love scenes.
But however phony were the lines I had to read, there was nothing phony about Carlotta's anatomy. And, in a strictly professional manner, I'd become pretty familiar with Carlotta's anatomy in the past week or so.
And in the case of Carlotta's torso, familiarity sure as hell didn't breed contempt. Ditto her legs, and her breasts. From my point of view the situation was ideal. If I put a bit too much realism into the feeling up scenes, got a good grip on her left tit instead of her shoulder or slid my fingers too high up her leg-I could always plead ignorance of the acting game. I could claim I'd gotten carried away.
And there wasn't much Carlotta could do about it. Off the set she still fended me off. Politely, expertly in a manner calculated not to hurt my feelings. But quite emphatically.
I didn't try to rush her. I just kept on feeling her up in front of the cameras and during rehearsals. The way I figured it. it was like investing money: sooner or later it was going to pay off.
After a hot necking session in front of the camera I could cool off easy. A short samlor ride to the Jade Grotto or to the Tiger Lily's apartment-and bang went my tensions.
But Carlotta, so far as I could tell, wasn't getting any sex from anyone. When I built up tension in her-and I sure as hell worked hard at doing just that-I just hiked up her blood pressure another notch. And there it stayed.
Sooner or later the pressure was going to reach the point where she'd have to get herself laid or go crazy. And I was going to make damn sure I was the boy who did the laying.
Meanwhile, back on the set, Jaybee decided that he was happy with the take and told us we were through for the day. I wiped a little sweat off my brow and turned to grin at Carlotta.
"Sorry I loused up that first take," I said. "But that caress me with your eyes line just stuck in my craw. I guess I'm not cut out to be a professional actor. Hell, I know I'm not."
Carlotta smiled at me. "You're doing very well, Dave. Much better than I expected." She glanced over her shoulder. Jaybee was busy raging and fuming at one of the technicians. "And just between the two of us, Dave, most of the lines are pretty bad."
"Isn't it the truth," I agreed. "Jaybee keeps telling me I don't know what I'm talking about because I'm not a writer. Hell, you don't have to be a chicken to know when someone's laid a rotten egg."
I pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Carlotta, lit them both. "Have dinner with me tonight?"
She looked at me warily. "I suppose you'll make another pass?"
I nodded. "Sure. You're a beautiful girl. I'm a normal male. What else do you expect?"
She laughed. "I suppose you're right. I'd be insulted if you didn't make a pass at me. It isn't very consistent to get angry when you do. But I still reserve the right to turn you down."
I sighed. "Okay. But you oughtn't to tell me that now. How can I play the game right when I know the outcome's already been fixed?"
Carlotta pretended to slap my face. Gently. "You're incorrigible, Dave. But I do like you, for some reason. All right, dinner. Pick me up at seven, all right? Now I've got to go and change."
I stood and watched her trot across the warehouse-the sound stage, as Jaybee insisted we call it-then turned to look around the set.
Off to one side Alice, looking cute as hell in a tight fitting airline hostess' uniform, was busy patting her face with a powder puff in front of a mirror.
She was too intent on what she was doing to notice me until I was already behind her. I pinched her plump little backside-an action which promptly evoked a satisfying yelp and caused her to jump about six inches straight up.
"How's tricks, Alice?" I inquired. "Gettin' any lately?"
She turned brick red. Her face was a funny mixture of expressions-anger, indignation, embarrassment, and just a trace of bewilderment.
I guess she was still trying to figure out why I'd gone to so much trouble to get her in a naked, spread-eagled position-and then walked away. Hell, I hadn't figured out why I had myself.
I guess she was happy enough that her precious virginity was still intact; but on the other hand, she probably felt a bit as Joan of Arc might if, after they'd gotten her tied nicely to the stake, they'd discovered they'd forgotten the matches and called the whole thing off.
Alice had been all set for martyrdom, and no true martyr is completely happy when rescued. "Oh," she said.' "Mr. Owen."
"Brilliant deduction," I commented. "Or did you recognize my facile fingers when I pinched you?" For good measure I pinched her again. Another yelp, but this time she didn't jump more than three inches.
"Mr. Owen. I--I wish you wouldn't do that. You have no right-" She trailed off as I fixed her with a beady stare-just to remind her who was boss. And who could have her fired at a moment's notice.
"Yes?" I said ominously.
"I mean-I mean I wish you wouldn't-touch me when I'm making up. I-I've gotten powder all over me."
"Oh, sure," I said. "It's okay to pinch you so long as you don't have a powder puff in your hand, is that it? Good. I'll remember that."
She glared at me helplessly. "Mr. Owen. I-I just don't understand you."
I chucked her lightly under one pouting breast. "Any time you want to get to know me better," I told her. "Just give me the signal."
With that I strolled off, leaving Alice with her mouth opening and closing. Maybe sometime it might be worth my time to seduce her properly. Meanwhile, the hell with her.
I had a more important project on my mind-seducing Carlotta. I didn't think I was too far from sinking my putt, either. Carlotta had melted quite a few degrees recently; in part, most likely, because of the careful way I'd handled her during our last few dates. But my feeling her up-for art's sake-on the set every day had helped too, no doubt.
Tonight, I decided, I'd have Ling fix dinner in my garden, on the terrace beneath the heavy scented Flame Trees. Have him rig up a couple of Chinese lanterns-with dim bulbs inside.
With any luck, and a little cooperation from tropical breezes, a full moon, plus four or five slugs of liquor in Carlotta's belly, I might even get her stripped, positioned and ready for mounting within-I glanced at my watch-within four or five hours.
I was wrong.
It took me five and a half hours. But brother, was it worth it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The initial stages had gone pretty much as I'd anticipated: an intimate dinner lor two in the shadowy privacy of my garden.
A tentative kiss beneath a perfumed Flame Tree. A gentle chastising from Carlotta. Another kiss. No chastising.
A pause to let Carlotta take in the yellow, low-hanging tropic moon. Another kiss, behind the ear this time. A little judicious feeling up on my part.
Soft murmurs of protest from Carlotta. More feeling up on my part. Another kiss, a deep one this time, with our bodies pressed hard together, our lips welded, my tongue thrusting deep into the wine-sweet warmth of her mouth.
Some more feeling up on my part. Conspicuous failure to protest on Carlotta's part. One shoulder strap down. Both shoulder straps down. Then the bra. Where the hell does it fasten? Oh, yeah. Right in front. Good show.
Bra open. Carlotta pulling away, trying to refasten her bra. My hands on her wrists, stopping her. The bra dropping silently to the grass.
Let go her wrists. Take hold of her breasts. An insincere mutter of protest from Carlotta. Squeeze a little. A shuddering sigh from Carlotta as I kneaded the firm cones of flesh, gently pinch the nipples until they're nicely erect. A little gentle wash-boarding of my fingers across them to arouse her.
End of all resistance from Carlotta-beginning of sexual cooperation on her part. Her body thrust hard against mine; her arms pulling me to her; her lips seeking mine avidly.
Carlotta pushing away again, but only so's she can pull her dress over her head. No panties-a minor surprise. My own clothes off by now. A moment to stand and admire the slender perfection of Carlotta's nude body, a silver white erotic vision in the moonlight.
An embrace, vertical. An embrace, horizontal, on the blanket I'd foresightedly spread on the still warm, always soft grass.
The murmured, meaningless, ritualistic exchange of words that always takes place between a man and woman about to make love for the first time: protestations of love from the man; incoherent comment to the effect that she shouldn't be doing what she's about to do, and certainly didn't plan for it to happen.
Then the entry into warm, new country.
Up to this point, as I said, things had gone pretty much as I'd anticipated.
The surprise came the moment our bodies joined and her legs embraced me.
Carl 'a went wild.
One moment she was a mildly aroused but largely passive woman yielding her body to me-the next she was a twisting, writhing, thrashing physical dynamo.
All I had to do was hang on. Her churning, up-thrusting body did the rest. I'd meant to go slow, to build leisurely and masterfully. But there was no slowing the frantic demand of her thrashing body arched off the ground faster and faster to send me deep into her.
It was all over in less than a minute.
But what a minute.
Afterwards we lay on our backs, bodies touching, staring up at the giant tropic moon and a sky full of glittering stars while our heartbeats returned to normal and the warm breeze dried the sweat from our bodies.
Carlotta's right hand found the fingers of my left hand, and gently squeezed; she moved her head until our cheeks were touching.
It was the moment I'd been waiting for, the moment of relaxed, drowsy contentment-the moment of spiritual closeness that comes after the dazzling crescendo of physical union. Now was the time for whispered words of love, for whispered confidences.
So I gently squeezed Carlotta's hand, and lightly kissed her soft cheek, and said: "Carlotta, what is it that Jaybee has on you-that lets him blackmail you?"
I felt her body stiffen, and she turned her head to stare at me suddenly. I kept on looking up at the moon and stars.
"How-how do you know he's blackmailing me, Dave?"
I shrugged. "Women aren't the only ones with intuition. I can sense it." I turned and smiled at her. A warm, confidence inspiring smile. "Carlotta, you're the most alluring, exciting woman I've ever known."
She didn't say anything; evidently she believed me. So, thus encouraged, I went further: "I guess I'm a little in love with you, Carlotta."
She smiled back. A gentle, sweet smile. "Only-a little, Dave?"
If that wasn't a woman for you. I knew damn well she wasn't in love with me. But she wasn't content to have me love her (unrequited) just a little-she wanted me to be head over heels in (hopeless) love for her.
"I reckon not, Carlotta. I reckon I love you all the way." Whatever the hell 'all the way' meant.
"And because I love you, I can't stand the thought of your being blackmailed."
I propped myself on one elbow and gave her a strong, confident, protective smile. "It may be that, if I know what it is Jaybee has on you, I can figure out a way to get you oft" the hook."
She shook her head slowly. "No. There's nothing you could do. Nothing."
"Don't be too sure. Remember I've been knocking around in rough company for a long time. I might be able to come up with an angle you've never thought of."
"No. It's no use. He has the-the evidence safely hidden. In California, I expect."
I said, casually, "You don't think he has the film with him?"
"No, there's no reason why-" She stopped and sucked in her breath quickly. "How-how did you know it-it was-" She broke off and sat up, staring at me intently.
"A guess. Narcotics? Hardly. You're not on anything now, I can tell-and Jaybee couldn't easily prove you ever were-which I doubt. You're not the type to commit murder. And from what I've heard, you didn't come to Hollywood until about a year ago. So I asked myself what Jaybee might learn-or do-in that time to put you in a position to blackmail you. My guess was he took a picture-or pictures of you that might prove, well, awkward to explain. Right."
Carlotta sighed. "Yes. You are right."
She lowered herself to a prone position again, and for almost a minute we lay there silently.
Then I found her hand again and said, encouragingly, "Want to tell me about it?"
"You'd never understand, Dave"
"Perhaps I'm more understanding than you think." I squeezed her hand gently. "The only thing that puzzles me, Carlotta, is how a clever girl like you ever put yourself in such a position."
She laughed softly. "Perhaps I am not so clever, Dave. Perhaps I'm very foolish. Yes, I know I am. You see, it isn't just an awkward to explain picture, as you put it. It's a movie. A-a dirty movie."
"You poor kid," I said. "You must have been really desperate to agree to make a movie like that."
"Dave! You don't think I'd agree to make such an awful thing, do you?"
"Why, honey," I said, "I suppose not. But-well, I don't mean to doubt your word-it's just that it's hard to imagine anybody making an, uh, intimate movie without agreeing. Agreeing under protest, maybe. But agreeing."
Carlotta laughed, bitterly this time. "Yes. It does sound incredible, doesn't it? I was the-star of the movie. And I didn't even know it."
"Tell me about it," I said, trying not too sound too eager. I was damn curious to know what she was talking about.
"It happened not long after I'd arrived in Hollywood. I'd made quite a few films in Europe. I was, well, moderately well known. But after I reached Hollywood I didn't get an offer for several months. I'd come to make a movie called THE AROMA OF ROMANCE. It was to feature some new process where they squirted different scents at the audience."
"Good God," I said, and meant it.
"Yes. Indeed. But they offered me quite a lot of money, so I'd agreed. But before I got there somebody else made a movie rather similar. It was awful. And it lost money. So, THE AROMA OF ROMANCE was cancelled. And I was stranded without a job.
"That was when I met Jaybee. He was awfully nice to me-and he didn't even try to make a pass. He told me it was just a matter of time before I became a big star, that I shouldn't get discouraged. And he let me stay in his house for several weeks."
"Without making a pass? That guy has real restraint."
"Dave! He wasn't in the house when I was there. He was down in Mexico, making some kind of industrial film or something."
I had my own idea as to what kind of film Jaybee had probably been making in Mexico, but I said nothing.
"Anyway, he insisted that I stay in his house, rent free. There was an elderly woman, a housekeeper-at least, I thought then she was a housekeeper-who lived in the maid's room. It was all very proper."
"Yeah," I said. "More likely the 'housekeeper' was some biddie who once kept a house, if I know Jaybee. Go on."
"I stayed there three weeks. Then Jaybee came back from Mexico and I moved into a hotel. A little While later he asked me over to dinner. I went, of course. He'd been very kind to me. And I liked and trusted him."
"Yeah. Likable he is-at times. Trustworthy he is not."
"We had dinner. The-housekeeper-fixed it. Jaybee was very quiet, but I could see he was upset. At least, I thought he was upset. He's a good actor. I asked him what was wrong.
"He hemmed and hawed for a bit. Then he told me that he'd just heard that his ex-wife had died. He told me they'd been divorced over a year, that she was the one who'd wanted the divorce. But that he still loved her."
"Jaybee," I put in, "told me he'd never been married and never intended to be."
"He hasn't. And he most likely won't. But I believed him. He-he broke down and cried. I comforted him as best I could. He was just like a little boy-sobbing in my arms. After a while he got hold of himself. Told me he was ashamed to have made such a fool of himself in front of me."
She sighed. "Then, well, it's hard to explain, but-"
"I know. You wound up letting him seduce you. Because you felt sorry for him."
"Yes. He didn't attract me, physically. But I liked him. He'd been good to me. I felt sorry for him. And also, to be quite honest, it had been a long time since anyone had made love to me. Once he began to touch me, touch my body, I responded. We made love several times that night. The first time in his living room, then in his bedroom.
"Just before dawn I dressed and went home to my hotel. I told Jaybee, before I left, that while I didn't regret having given him my body, I would never do so again. I told him we had little in common-that I did not wish him to become my lover. He agreed I was right. He thanked me for. as he put it, giving him a night to remember. And then I left. And that's all that ever happened."
"Huh?"
"I don't blame you for being skeptical. But it's the truth. Dave, do you have a cigarette?"
I did, thanks to my foresight in having placed cigarettes and a lighter near the blanket before Carlotta had arrived. I lit one for each of us.
"Thanks. Well, a week later Jaybee sent for me. It was the day after I'd signed my first really big contract. He said he had a-an intimate movie he wanted to show me. I was horrified. I got up to leave his office. But he already had the lights out, and the film was being projected on the screen. And I was in it."
She dragged on her cigarette, let smoke plume upwards toward the distant moon. "It was like a nightmare. I kept thinking, this can't be me-but it was. Do you know how he'd made the movie?"
"How?"
"Behind all the mirrors in his house-the front room, the bedroom mirrors, bathroom mirrors-behind each he'd had a camera hidden. He boasted about it later. The cameras were wired to the light switches, so that every time I'd turned on the light and looked in a mirror during the three weeks I lived in his house, a camera, a movie camera had photographed me."
"Well, what's so dirty about a girl looking into a mirror?"
She laughed sadly. "Oh, Dave, Dave. Use your imagination. A woman dresses before a mirror. And undresses. And, if she's an actress, as I am, she-well, she preens and looks at her body. She makes faces."
"Faces?"
"Certainly. All actresses-and actors-do. You try different expressions. You smile, you laugh, you sneer. You read lines in front of a mirror. You open your mouth wide to make sounds. And, if you're young and silly as I was, sometimes you stick your tongue out at yourself.
"Can't you guess what Jaybee did? He had hundreds and hundreds of feet of me in the nude-in almost every possible position, and with a hundred different expressions on my face.
"And, of course, he had pictures of me making loye to him. Very clear, very detailed pictures. Of the two of us on the couch making love, of us making love on the bed. From half a dozen angles."
She stubbed out her cigarette and lay silent for a moment. Then she went on: "Jaybee is very good at montage, at putting bits of film together. In the film he made, I was a housewife whose husband had just left for the office. He opened with a shot of a funny little fat man with a silly moustache walking away from a house-Jaybee's house.
"Then there was a reverse shot over the shoulder of a girl standing in the doorway waving goodbye. The girl wasn't me, but she was wearing a housecoat just like mine, and from the rear she looked a little like me."
"You mean he had shots of other people inter-cut?"
"Yes. All through the movie. After those first two shots he had me walking into the bedroom, in my housecoat. I take the housecoat off. and all I have on is a bra and panties. Then I take them off, and look down at my body."
"This was really you, huh? Not some other girl?"
"It was me, of course. I must have undressed dozens of times in his bedroom while I was there. But the shot he used was one in which I happened to have a silly sort of smile on my face.
"He had a caption-SALLY INSPECTS HER EQUIPMENT TO MAKE SURE SHE'S READY FOR THE DAY'S CALLERS. And the terrible things was, it sort of fitted. And right after that he had a close shot of me winking and nodding my head." She swore softly in German. "I must have been doing eye exercises before the mirror. But you have no idea how, how lewd that one wink looked out of context. Or, rather, in a different context."
"I can imagine," I said. I could, too.
"After that, salesmen began to call. The milkman. A delivery boy. An iceman. And I-in the movie-made love to them all."
I could imagine how Jaybee had done that, too. A shot of some creep in a milkman's uniform-taken in Jaybee's house-and then a reverse shot of Carlotta smiling and taking off her clothes. There was only one thing I couldn't figure out, so I asked Carlotta: "If the only film he had of you making love was with him, how did he fake it to look as if you were making love to a dozen men in turn?"
"It wasn't hard. For Jaybee. He used only that footage in which his head was turned away from the camera. I guess he knew, when he was making love to me, where all the cameras were. And a lot of the time he cut the film so that you could only see my head and his body-not his head.
"I think he used bits of film showing other girls making love, too-but intercut so that, if you didn't know, you'd swear it was me.
"He did a lot of intercutting like that-even for the scenes where what was happening was just silly, not dirty."
Jaybee, I remembered, had once told me that a good 'intimate' movie should have clean scenes in it for contrast.
"For instance," she went on, "there was a scene in which an ice cream man I'm supposed to have invited in offers me an ice cream cone-the caption says in return for my favors.
"Well, Jaybee had a shot of this actor in a white uniform holding out an ice cream cone. And then he had a shot of me, without any clothes, looking into the mirror and licking my lips. Of course, in the film it looks as if I'm drooling at the sight of the ice cream."
"Uh huh," I said. "I can guess the rest. Next a shot of you sticking your tongue out and leaning forward. And then a shot of some other girl licking the ice cream cone with her tongue-a very close shot, showing just her jaw and mouth."
"You sound like you'd seen the movie," Carlotta said glumly. "Yes, that was how it was. All through the film. But most of the scenes weren't clean. Not at all."
She began to cry softly. I leaned over her and gently kissed her, kissing away the tears while in between kisses I murmured consoling words into her ear. And began feeling her up again.
It took a little while to get her to stop feeling sorry for herself and start feeling happy I was feeling her. But I was in no hurry. I just let my hands roam over her soft, warm curves; and while my fingers, toyed with her flesh, my mind toyed with what she'd just told me.
No doubt about it, Jaybee had her over a barrel. I knew, from having seen some samples of his work, how cleverly he could mix film. Carlotta could scream frame until she was blue in the face-but if Jaybee ever let a few prints of that particular stag movie get around. she'd be washed up in Hollywood for good.
I'd listened to a lot of talk about Hollywood since I'd met Jaybee, and I'd learned that, while an actress can pose in the nude all she wants-or even do a suggestive dance in Las Vegas now and then-a girl who's made dirty movies, really dirty movies, is finished if she gets found out.
So now I knew why Carlotta Ernst had agreed to work in Jaybee's movie-whatever the contract read, most likely she wasn't going to get paid at all. Except by Jaybee agreeing to keep a certain reel of film under lock and key.
A real clever guy, Jaybee.
The question was, could I outsmart him? Most likely he hadn't brought the film with him-he'd have no reason to. And it wasn't the least bit likely he'd ever let me know exactly where in the States he had it hidden; he was much too cagey for that.
Which posed somewhat of a dilemna for me: if Jaybee failed to have an 'accident', I wouldn't be able to collect on the partnership insurance and get sole ownership of RIVER OF LUST. If he did have a fatal accident, on the other hand, how in hell would I ever be able to get my hands on the fake stag movie starring Carlotta?
There must be some solution, I thought-and at that moment it came to me. I didn't need to actually possess the hot footage-it would be enough if Carlotta thought I had it. All I had to do was get Jaybee to tell me about the movie-describe scenes Carlotta hadn't mentioned. That way Carlotta would be convinced-if I played my hand carefully enough-that I actually had the film. And by that time Jaybee wouldn't be around to contradict me.
In a way I'd even be doing Carlotta a favor-she could plan her own career without worrying about being forced to make any movies she didn't want to. When I got in the driver's seat Carlotta would never again be forced to take a part in a B movie. She'd be a free agent-so long as she came across with twenty-five per cent of everything she made.
And if she became the big star everyone predicted she'd be, she'd make plenty.
"Oh, yes, Darling. Oh yes, yes, yes!" Carlotta murmured. I was startled for an instant, before I realized she was urging me to keep my hands roaming-not referring to her future earning capacity.
So I kept my hands roaming. And my lips and tongue. And then Carlotta's hands began to roam. And her lips, and her tongue.
After a while I began to get some interesting ideas. I whispered them to Carlotta.
"Dave!" she gasped. "People only do that sort of thing in-in stag movies, don't they?" She giggled. "You're right. I guess it's okay, so long as nobody's taking pictures. You'll have to show me what to do."
I showed her.
She learned fast, and practiced her new talents with an enthusiasm that soon had me in ecstasy. The last thing I thought before the fireworks went off was what a damn shame it was I didn't have a movie camera rigged up someplace.
I could have blackmailed her for fifty per cent of her salary.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It took Jaybee almost another week before he A completed all the Bangkok footage for RIVER OF LUST-exterior shots and crowd scenes, plus all the interior shots-which we made at the converted warehouse.
The remaining footage would be shot up country, on the river. Jaybee had purchased two boats-an antique steam launch, our 'prop', and a more modern shallow draft motor vessel that rejoiced in the name Bangkok Belle.
The steam launch's engine wasn't up to travelling several hundred miles up river. So Jaybee had dispatched the Bangkok Belle up river with the launch in tow. Supplies and equipment were loaded aboard the Belle, which was to tie up and wait for us up river.
Jaybee, Carlotta and I-together with half-a-dozen assorted actors-would fly up by chartered seaplane when we finished in Bangkok.
The days went fast-I'd begun to enjoy working as an actor; and the nights went even faster-Carlotta, having finally surrendered, seemed to take it for granted we would make love every night.
And Carlotta was a hell of a lot of fun in bed. I'd read somewhere once that Viennese women are the sexiest in Europe. Which, if Carlotta was a typical daughter of Vienna, is a statement I won't quarrel with. And I've bedded a lot of European women in my time.
She had an impish, mischievous quality in bed that I found wonderfully erotic. And she wasn't the kind of girl who makes love once and then rolls over and goes to sleep. Carlotta slept six hours a night-but she liked to spend at least ten or eleven hours in bed between dusk and dawn.
The little minx even used to set an alarm clock for some ungodly hour of the morning-so we could get in at least two friendly wrestling matches before breakfast.
She wasn't in love with me, of course-anymore than I was in love with her (despite my constant protestations to the contrary). But she liked me a lot. As I did her. Sometimes, looking at her slender but ripely curved body lying beside me in bed, it gave me a funny feeling to realize that this was the girl I was planning to blackmail in the not so distant future.
A funny feeling-but a pleasant one, too.
Good looking, voluptuous and willing girls are easy to find. But a good blackmail prospect is rare indeed. In a few days or weeks or months I'd tire of Carlotta's physical charms, and begin to hanker for some fresh, unsampled flesh.
But I'd never tire of collecting twenty-five per cent of her salary. I was certain of that.
I got an equally funny (but not so pleasant) feeling whenever I talked to Jaybee, too. Damn it all, I didn't like the idea of killing him. Semi-crook and con-man he might be, it was still hard to really dislike the guy-Still, once he'd finished shooting the movie (naturally I'd tell the insurance people he hadn't finished), what other choice did I have? Jaybee alive was a nice guy to shoot the breeze with or stand to a drink. But Jaybee dead, the way I figured it, was worth nine hundred thousand bucks to me. I really had no choice.
We were scheduled to fly up river on a Saturday. Thanks to Jaybee's efficient schedule and the fact that everything had gone without a hitch, we wound up the scenes Friday noon.
Carlotta wanted to spend the afternoon sightseeing with me, but I begged off pleading a business engagement. Which was more or less true. Jaybee had completed the six stag movies he'd been working on, and wanted to run them off for me-an invitation I eagerly accepted.
He'd done most of his shooting at night, using the Jade Grotto as his "studio". When I'd asked him how he found the energy to direct and film "intimate" movies every night after putting in a full day working on RIVER OF LUST he'd simply grinned.
"It relaxes me, Dave. It really does."
Maybe it did. Personally I couldn't see how anyone could be "relaxed" while watching some of the scenes Jaybee had photographed.
I sat dry mouthed and sweating while Jaybee ran off all six movies. After the last film had reached a frenzied climax-in every sense-Jaybee turned off the projector and flicked the lights back on.
"Well," He inquired, "what do you think?"
"I think," I croaked, "I need a drink. Two drinks."
Jaybee poured us both a couple of strong shots. "I ask you," he said happily, "are those great dir-ah, intimate movies or aren't they?"
"They're colorful. I'll admit that."
"Sure. I always use color film. It's more life-like."
It was, for a fact. My mind was whirling with a montage of flashing thighs, quivering breasts, churning hips. Jaybee had used, in one way or another, just about every girl at the Jade Grotto. He'd had no lack of actors, either. Hell, once the word had gotten around among the samlor boys that they could make love to the highest priced prostitutes in Bangkok for free-if they didn't mind a crazy American taking pictures-he'd had hundreds of volunteers.
I lit a cigarette, and wasn't surprised to find that my fingers shook and my palms were moist. Jaybee had a fertile imagination, and some of the tricks he'd thought up for the girls were pretty original.
What I wanted to do right then more than anything else was hurry down to the Jade Grotto and have some of the girls do a repeat performance--with me as the recipient of their attentions.
Instead I poured Jaybee another shot of Scotch and listened politely and intently as he chattered on about the problems and satisfactions of making "intimate" movies. I could play games with the girls at the Jade Grotto any time I wanted to-but I might never again get such a golden opportunity to get Jaybee drunk.
It took me three hours and two bottles of good Scotch. And by the end of the third hour I'd found out just what I needed to know.
It was, actually, absurdly easy. I simply waited until he was in a mellow and boastful mood, then told him that I knew about the off-color movie he'd made "starring" Carlotta. He was too drunk to be really surprised. And, just as I'd anticipated, when I told him that, from what Carlotta had told me, the movie sounded pretty tame, he'd bristled with hurt pride.
That particular movie, he protested, had been a masterpiece of erotic ingenuity. And to prove his statement, he detailed it scene by scene.
Which was exactly what I wanted.
After Jaybee's sad demise, I'd simply tell Carlotta I'd found the film among Jaybee's effects. And that from now on it would take twenty-five per cent of her earnings to keep me from sending copies to every movie company in Hollywood.
She'd be too shocked to think clearly, and all too ready to believe that, since I could sneeringly describe every scene in it, I must in fact have the actual film. I could handle that all right, I was certain.
I stood up, a little unsteadily. "Come on, Jaybee," I said. "Let's run over to the Giotto and give the girls a hard time."
Jaybee grinned drunkenly. 'Good-good idea." And with that he put his head back and slid peacefully into a drunken slumber.
To hell with him. I headed for the Jade Grotto.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Oh Rodney, Rodney, will this journey never end?" inquired Carlotta, "This awful heat. This awful river. That awful steam launch. Only you make the trip bearable. Kiss me again, you fool."
I kissed her again. "Never mind, Greta," I said, lifting my lips from hers. "Soon we will know if your husband, lost to the world these many months, is alive-or dead."
"Oh Rodney, Rodney. He must be dead-or else, what about us? Oh Rodney, Rodney-crush me to your chest, caress me, caress me with your fingers!"
I crushed her to my chest and slid my hands up her back, delighting in the firm warmth of her flesh beneath her thin blouse. I slid one hand down so that it rested just above the twin mounds of flaring flesh that were her buttocks.
"Cut!" said Jaybee. "Good work, kids." He wiped his brow. "That ought to do it for today."
"Dave!" said Carlotta. "Jaybee said cut-you can stop crushing me to your chest now."
I let my hand drop a few inches and squeezed her rump. "Nuts. I'm just getting warmed up."
Carlotta laughed and squirmed free. "That's the trouble. You're too warm. And the sun's too hot. How can you be romantic while we're baking to death?"
I shrugged and we strolled over to the main tent where Jaybee was happily mixing drinks. We all drank. We all needed a drink, for that matter.
We'd been up country for almost two weeks now, and the exterior scenes for RIVER OF LUST were just about completed.
A few yards out in the broad river floated the Bangkok Belle, our headquarters and supply ship. Tied up to the bank was the damn steam launch. I couldn't even look at it .without flinching.
Because for most of the two weeks Carlotta and I had been filmed supposedly navigating the damn thing up river. The launch was small, low in the water, dirty (colorful, Jaybee called it), and boasted an ancient steam engine that threw out more heat than a blast furnace.
In principal, Jaybee's method of shooting on-the-river footage was simple. The Bangkok Belle, with Jaybee behind the camera and sound equipment, sailed up the river alongside the steam launch-in which Carlotta and I sat (or stood, peering ahead with shaded eyes as if a new planet were about to swim into our ken) and acted and recited our lines.
In fact, the damn steam engine was forever breaking down, and we'd have to sit sweltering in mid-river while the Thai engineer tinkered with it, sooty wood smoke settled over us, and gnats bit us.
However I had to admit that we'd made a lot of pretty colorful footage. The Wang River is broad and shallow, at least in the area where we were shooting, and the jungle comes right down to the banks. Some of the big trees overhang the river quite a bit in spots, so that the steam launch chugged along close to the bank it was as if we were steaming through a cool green tunnel in the jungle.
The wild life had been cooperative, too-for some reason the elephants, normally pretty shy, paid no attention to us. We'd gotten plenty of shots of the steam launch chugging right past elephants bathing in the river. And once a procession of about a dozen had waded across the river nose to tail.
We'd gotten some nice shots of Thai villages on the river bank, too-though it had taken a lot of Jaybee's time and patience to get the friendly Thai villagers to understand that they weren't supposed to stand and wave cheerfully at us-but to shake their fists and flourish spears menacingly.
I'd complained to Jaybee that, while it might look exciting for Carlotta and I to be filmed steaming past a crowd of spear waving natives, it wasn't very realistic: the Thai's don't use spears.
But Jaybee's answer had been "So who'll know the difference?" And since he'd gone to all the trouble of bringing a hundred especially made spears up from Bangkok, I didn't argue.
And in a way, the two weeks had been fun. Carlotta treated the whole thing as a sort of glorified picnic-which I suppose it was, really. Except for the damn steam launch.
"Jaybee," I said thoughtfully. "Couldn't we have a scene with the steam launch running aground and catching fire. It would be nice and dramatic." It would, too-although that wasn't why I suggested it. I'd developed a real hatred for the stinking craft, and I'd enjoy seeing it burn.
"I've thought of that," said Jaybee. "But I hate to burn up all that money. We can sell it when we get back to Bangkok. Which reminds me, I'd better go see if they've got the engine working again."
He trotted off in the direction of the launch, in the stern of which a couple of Thai's were cursing softly as they wrestled with bits of antiquated machinery. I turned to grin at Carlotta.
She winked and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, you tried, anyway. God, I'd love to see that damn boat get what it has coming." She raised her glass and swallowed her drink, a gesture that almost but not quite caused the firm round globes of her breasts to pop out of the neckline of her blouse.
The costume Carlotta wore in the movie was simple but interesting: a pair of white shorts and a white blouse, both tight fitting. Best of all, however, the costume got more interesting the more footage we shot-because each time Jaybee crossed off another shot he carefully ripped off another piece.
The idea being, of course, that the arduous journey up the river the hero and heroine of RIVER OF LUST were supposed to be making was playing hell with the heroine's clothes.
And right now, with the movie just about finished, there weren't many more places where anything else could be torn off or ripped-not without causing the censors to drool and scream at the same time.
The shorts ended in frayed bits of cotton about half an inch below her backside, exposing every inch of her lush, creamy white thighs. And the blouse had had so many holes torn in it that about the only flesh that wasn't visible from time to time or all the time was the lower surfaces of her breasts and both nipples. As it was, the neckline was now so low that, in some of the action shots, we'd had to shoot the same scene over several times because Carlotta's breastworks kept bouncing out.
Carlotta saw my eyes roving over what was left of her costume and smiled. "Will I be glad to get out of this for the last time. I'd feel less naked if I were nude, if you know what I mean."
"Well," I said, "if you'll feel more comfortable without the costume there's only one thing to do."
I got up, slid one arm under her ripe thighs with the other around her back, and lifted her out of the chair.
"Dave!" she squealed. "Put me down!" I ignored her and kept on carrying her toward her tent. To get there we had to pass Jaybee, who was standing frowning at the steam launch.
"Jaybee!" Carlotta cried. "Save me! Dave is going to rape me!"
Jaybee nodded absently. "Have fun, kids. Don't damage her costume, Dave-we may need it again."
I carried the still squealing and kicking Carlotta into her tent and dumped her on the cot.
"Dave!" she said, "it's too hot! I'm not in the mood to-"
She squealed again as I leered and hooked my fingers over the neckline of her blouse.
"You have a choice," I told her. "Take off the costume yourself-or let me rip it off."
"Dave! You wouldn't. Jaybee would be furious. He-"
"I'll count to five. One-"
"No, Dave. Maybe this evening if it's cooler and-"
"Two."
"You're a sex maniac, do you know that?"
"Yes. Three."
"You'd actually rape me?"
"Sure. Four."
She stood up and glared at me. Or pretended to glare at me. "All right. But you'll regret this, believe me." She began to unbutton the tattered piece of cloth that was her blouse.
I leered at her in friendly fashion as her ripe, pink tipped breasts bounced into full view. "You," she said grimly, "are taking advantage of the fact that I'm a helpless weak female."
"Uh huh," I said, as she tugged her ultra-short shorts down past her hips, stepped out of them and hung them carefully out of harms way.
Then I got my own clothes off, fast. Carlotta stood watching me, hands on hips. There was a slight grin on her face. "It's not that I object to sex, Dave," she said, "it's just that I'm beginning to get annoyed about the way you take me for granted. Or to put it another way, the way you take me, period. Whenever the impulse strikes."
I tossed my shorts over a chair and reached for her. "My impulse," I said, "Is about to strike again."
And as I drew her soft body to me and then pulled her down on the cot I forgot her warning that I would regret this particular wrestling match. And from the way, a few minutes later, she responded, from the way her hips bucked, I assumed she had too.
I was wrong.
"Dave," said Jaybee, "it'll only take a couple of minutes to shoot."
"But it's not in the script," I protested. "I just don't get it."
"It's a new scene Car-I wrote last night. It's this way, see? You reach this native village and come down with a bout of fever. You toss and moan, while Greta tenderly nurses you back to health."
"But we shot that scene."
"Sure. This is just an additional scene. You get delirious and thrash around trying to kill yourself. So Greta has to tie you to the cot."
I shrugged. "Okay. It's your script."
So like a fool, I lay on my back on the cot Jaybee had set up in front of the camera and let a grinning Jaybee tie my hands and feet to the four corners of the cot.
"Hurry up," I said. "It's damn hot lying in the sun." It was, too, even though I was only wearing my shorts.
At this point Carlotta strolled up.
"Is this," she said to Jaybee, "the scene where Dave is supposed to be tossing and moaning?"
Jaybee nodded and grinned. Carlotta was grinning, too. And then I noticed that the Thai technicians who were standing watching were also grinning. And that the lens cover was in place on the camera.
"Hey," I said. "What is this?"
"Jaybee," said Carlotta innocently, "Jaybee, I don't think Dave is in the mood right now. I'm very good at coaching amateur actors. Suppose I see if I can get him to toss and moan a little, huh? Just to get him in the mood."
"A good idea," agreed Jaybee. "Take him away, boys."
And four grinning Thai's stepped up, grabbed the four corners of the cot, and started walking. They walked the cot and me right through the flap of Carlotta's tent, put the cot and me down, and then trouped out, snickering.
"Hey!" I yelled, "hey!"
Carlotta opened the tent flap, stepped inside, closed the tent flap and fastened it. Then she took off her clothes. Calmly, and whistling to herself as she did so. She paid no attention whatsoever to me until she was stripped completely naked.
Then she bent over me and leered. "You," she said, "are about to find out what it feels like to be raped."
I relaxed and managed a grin. For a moment or two I was airaid everyone in the company had flipped their lids, and I was going to be burned at the stake or something.
"Okay," I said. "I won't resist."
Carlotta began tugging at my shorts. The cotton was heavy, and it took her several minutes to tear them off completely. "You bet you won't resist," she agreed. "You can't, with your hands and feet tied."
She had a point there. So I just rested comfortably and enjoyed the soft, skillful play of Carlotta's fingers over my body, my eyes on the ivory hemispheres of her breasts that swayed tantalizingly over me.
Then they stopped swaying and began to bounce up and down. They bounced up and down for the excellent reason that Carlotta, positioned in just the right place, was also bouncing up and down.
It would have been more fun if my hands had been free and I could have reached out for a couple of handfuls of her. But it was fun enough. If all practical jokes were like this, I decided, there was a lot to be said for joking in a practical manner.
While I thought this, Carlotta kept on grinning. And bouncing.
"If you keep pumping," I said, "you're going to strike oil. A gusher."
Carlotta grinned and bounced faster. And faster. I closed my eyes in bliss while golden fire seemed to spread through my body. And then the fire became unbearable.
And then it was over, over save for the warm after glow.
"Fun, huh?" asked Carlotta softly. "Want to do it again?"
I opened my eyes. She was still sitting astride me, her soft, plump little backside resting on me.
"A little later, maybe. I'm not in the mood right now, honey."
Carlotta grinned mischievously. "When I say that you don't pay any attention. Well, now I'm in the driver's seat. And I say let's do it again. Now."
I laughed. "Bounce away, honey. It won't do you any good."
"We'll see," said Carlotta. Only she didn't bounce. She just began to squeeze gently with her internal muscles. A squeeze. A five second pause. Another squeeze. A four second pause. And so on, until her soft inner muscles were squeezing me with the pulsing rhythm of a heartbeat.
And then she began to gyrate in a tiny circle.
It was too soon.
I needed a little time to recuperate.
I was spent.
Finished.
Nothing could arouse me right then, I told myself. But there was no resisting the rhythmic pulse of her body Despite myself I felt my body begin to respond. Carlotta felt it, too.
And five minutes later I gasped as a million skyrockets exploded.
"You're getting better," said Carlotta. "Now, let's try again. I've got a new trick I want to try."
"No." I gasped, "no!"
Carlotta ignored me. She just went ahead and tried the new trick. It worked.
This time Carlotta didn't insist on trying again immediately. Maybe she was a little tired herself. She got up, fixed herself a drink, smoked a cigarette, thoughtfully wiped the sweat off my body with a damp towel, and fixed herself another drink.
Then she got back on.
I lay back with my eyes closed telling myself it wasn't possible-a man can't be raped against his will. Which is true. The trouble was, Carlotta knew tricks that made a mockery out of my will power. And a near wreck out of me.
Dusk had fallen over the camp before Carlotta took pity on me and untied the ropes.
She had to help me to my feet. She also had to help me put on my shorts, and she offered to help me totter to my own tent. I refused, somewhat curtly.
As I tottered out into the night Jaybee and the rest of the gang sitting around the campfire all turned and grinned at me. I waved at them as nonchalantly as I could and walked down to the moonlit river where, shorts and all, I plunged into the cooling water.
I lay in the shallow water for about five minutes. Then I walked back to my tent, dried myself, changed into a fresh pair of shorts, and walked over to the campfire.
Nobody said anything. They just grinned. "Well," I said briskly, "me for a double helping of curry. I need energy." I winked at Jaybee. "Got a heavy date tonight."
Everybody's mouth dropped open.
I wolfed down two helpings of curry, then turned and walked briskly towards Carlotta's tent. I ached in every muscle. I ached in muscles I'd never known I'd had. But I was going to walk briskly if it killed me.
And that wasn't all I was going to do.
It was madness, of course. And I knew I'd regret it in the morning, when I really began to ache. But no matter what, I wasn't going to let Carlotta have the last laugh. Not her or any woman.
She was asleep when I entered her tent, her firm breasts rising and falling gently. I bent over and shook one.
"Wake up," I said.
She woke with a start and then stared at me in amazement. "My God," she said, in an awed voice. "You are a man."
"You're right," I said, "and I'll prove it."
And believe it or not I did.
CHAPTER TWENTY
What shall it profit a man, I kept asking myself, to gain worldly riches at the cost of another man's life?
I must have asked myself that question a hundred times in the two days we'd been on the river headed towards Hua Lo. And every time I asked it, I got the same answer: nine hundred thousand dollars.
The picture was completed. At least, all footage had been shot. The film still had to be developed, of course, and then put together and edited.
But I had a copy of the script. I could have the editing done in Bangkok-if, that is, Jaybee wasn't around to do it himself.
We were on the Bangkok Belle, the ancient steam launch in tow. And in another day we'd reach Hua Lo-where Jaybee, Carlotta, the film and I would catch a plane to Bangkok while the Bangkok Belle worked her way slowly down river.
Another day to Hua Lo. But only a few minutes to the wide bend of the Wang River. And I had to make up my mind before we passed the bend.
I found a coin in my pocket, tossed it, slapped it flat on the back of my left hand. Heads I kill him. Tails he lives. It came up tails.
I stared out at the flat, calm surface of the Wang, at the towering jungle trees lining the banks. Nine hundred thousand dollars.
I pulled out the coin again. I'd make it two out of three. It came up heads both times. I put the coin back in my pocket. Well, that was that. Hell, it wasn't even really my decision to kill him; it was fate; the flip of an impersonal coin. I felt much better about the whole thing.
I strolled up the front of the boat where Jaybee was sitting in a camp chair reading a month old copy of Variety.
"Jaybee," I said, "a mile or so down the Wang makes a wide turn. Right at the elbow of the bend there's a big swamp bordering the river."
"So? Geography doesn't interest me, Dave."
"Me neither. But the point is, the swamp is a hangout for crocodiles. The river's full of 'em at that point. It occurred to me that we might anchor the steam launch and take a few shots of crocodiles swimming by it."
"Shots of crocs we already have."
"I know. But they're so plentiful at this spot the water literally boils with 'em. We could toss in a few hunks of meat to attract them. It'd make a dramatic shot."
Jaybee bounded to his feet. "Right! We'll do it." And he hustled off to give orders. As I'd figured he gave the impression that the whole idea was his own.
I hadn't been exaggerating when I'd told Jaybee crocs were plentiful at the bend of the Wang. Looking over the side of the steam launch the water actually did seem to boil with them.
Jaybee had anchored both boats about fifty yards from the entrance to the swamp. Carlotta and I, in our costumes-my normal khaki shorts and shirt for me, the ragged blouse and shorts for her-were on the steam launch.
Ten feet away was the Bangkok Belle. And in between, in the space between the boats where we'd been tossing hunks of beef, were the crocodiles. Big ones, little ones, mean ones and ugly ones. They snapped at the chunks of beef like sharks-and some of them were near as big as sharks, too. Big ten and twelve footers.
"Okay," yelled Jaybee. "Now here's the bit. The crocs are supposed to be trying to climb aboard the steam launch. Carlotta, you shrink back looking scared."
Carlotta shrank back looking scared. I didn't think it was all acting, either-the steam launch was low in the water and the crocs were damn close.
"Dave," yelled Jaybee, "you drop a few hunks of beef in-then when the crocs start pawing at the side of the launch, jab at 'em with the boat hook-as if you were afraid they'll climb aboard."
T nodded and, when Jaybee got behind his camera and waved I dropped in the beef and then jabbed away with the boat hook. The heavy metal prong glanced off the crocs thick skulls as if they were armor-plated. There was no real danger-the crocs couldn't actually get aboard, low in the water though the launch was. But it must have looked dramatic as hell.
"Great," shouted Jaybee. "Keep it up!"
I kept it up for another five minutes until Jaybee decided he had enough footage. Then I straightened up and stood, holding the boat hook casually, while Jaybee and a couple of the crew tugged at the ropes holding the launch. The idea being that, when the two boats were touching, Carlotta and I would jump aboard.
The two boats moved closer. Nine feet. Seven. Jaybee was standing directly across from me now. Six feet.
I reached out with the long boathook. Casually, as if I were about to hook it over the low rail of the Bangkok Belle to help pull the two boats together. I'd worked it all out very carefully. I'd pretend to stumble, the boat hook would get Jaybee behind one leg, a quick pull that wouldn't be noticed in the excitement-and Jaybee would join the crocodiles.
The boat hook was within inches of his leg now. I braced my feet on the deck and got ready. Jaybee was leaning way out. It would only take one quick pull at his leg above the knee and he'd be over....
And then Jaybee did the most stupid thing imaginable: he fell overboard. All by himself. Without any excuse but his own clumsiness.
One moment he was shouting orders, the next he was doing an ungraceful belly flop into the Wang. Carlotta screamed, the Thais on the boat yelled, the crocodiles, momentarily startled, swam clear.
As I leaned over with the boat hook. I knew the crocs would be back in a few seconds, but just in case Jaybee showed any signs of climbing up the steep side of the Bangkok Belle I wanted the boathook near his head so I could clout him one on the skull-accidentally.
But the boathook never got close to his skull. Instead the hook, just touching the surface of the water, caught on the back of one of the retreating crocodiles.
And over I went.
After that everything seemed to speed up, like a film run at double speed. I went under water, came up, saw a croc sliding closer, kicked at it, grabbed blindly for the steam launch.
I missed. Hell I was grabbing in the wrong direction. All I grabbed was Jaybee, who grabbed back. I cursed and tried to jerk my arm free-and only succeeded in pulling Jaybee toward me.
I went under briefly, surfaced, felt something hard brush by my legs, kicked out frantically, and finally succeeded in grabbing the side of the steam launch with my left hand. Jaybee still had a tight clutch on my right arm. I tried to pull loose again, and again only pulled Jaybee to me. I swallowed a pint of river water, choked and held on to the rail for dear life.
I felt something close over my shoulder. A croc? No-Jaybee's other hand. As if in a nightmare I heard him say, "Thanks, Dave," and then the bastard climbed out.
He climbed out by hooking one foot in the belt line of my shorts, pulling himself up until he could put the other foot on my shoulder. Then he put the first foot on my head. And he was safe aboard the steam launch.
I wanted to scream curses at him, and I would have if my mouth hadn't been full of water. I was so mad with rage I did a foolish thing. I let go the rail to shake my fist at him. Before I could grab it again the current swept me away from the side of the launch.
Everyone was yelling, Jaybee was trying to get a rope loose to throw at me, Carlotta was screaming-no, that was me-and the crocodiles, no longer afraid, were tearing toward me like torpedoes.
"We'll get you out Dave!" yelled Jaybee. "We'll get you!
And in an instant of awful clarity I knew they undoubtedly would get me; I knew that as certainly as I knew something else: the crocs would get to me first.
They did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Maybe it was because nothing too apalling was happening on the international scene just then, or maybe the editors decided the time was ripe for a good human interest story-whatever the reason, though, all the Bangkok papers gave me a big spread and wasted a lot of columns recounting my adventure in the river.
Even the Hong Kong and Singapore papers, the English language ones at least, devoted editorials to me. In short, I was famous.
As a hero.
Jaybee was photographed, with tears in his eyes, standing by the steam launch pointing to the exact spot where, "in the bravest gesture I've ever seen, plucky Dave Owen flung himself into a river boiling with crocodiles to rescue me, his producer."
He added a plug for RIVER OF LUST, paid a gracious tribute to the wonderful people of Thailand, without whose wholehearted cooperation said movie would never have been made, and shortly climbed on the plane for Hong Kong and Hollywood.
Carlotta Ernst was photographed, sitting on the steam launch in a position well calculated to show a lot of leg, and was quoted as remarking that greater love hath no man than he would lay down his life for a crocodile. Doubtless the reporter didn't get her exact words-though crocodile was a good description of Jaybee Weber.
Carlotta had added a brief plug for RIVER OF LUST, noted that she thought Thai policemen were wonderful, posed for a few more pictures. And then boarded the plane for Hong Kong and Hollywood.
The reporters stayed, to write glowing editorials about my heroism.
But even though they must have used several thousand gallons of ink, there were a number of items that failed to appear in any of the papers.
One was that neither Jaybee no Carlotta had bothered to visit me in the hospital-even for the sake of publicity pictures.
Despite the fact that I'd told Carlotta she was the most exciting, alluring woman I'd ever met. Even if I didn't mean it.
And despite the fact that Jaybee-the moron-never figured out that I'd been trying to kill him, not save him.
Also not mentioned in the newspaper stories was the tricky little stunt I discovered, too late, that Jaybee had pulled on me.
Before he'd even left California he'd formed a dummy corporation, RIVER OF LUST PRODUCTIONS. And said company, on paper-which is all that lawyers care about anyway-owned all profits and rights to RIVER OF LUST.
Which meant that Jaybee, when he'd landed in Bangkok, had been-on paper-only an employee of RIVER OF LUST PRODUCTIONS. The fact that he owned ninety-nine percent of the stock meant nothing. He wasn't an officer of the company. Hence he had no right to sign any agreements.
Hence my partnership agreement wasn't worth a damn.
I'd be lucky if I could collect anything.
And my luck, lately, hasn't been too good.
That much I suppose I should have forseen. I should have guessed that anybody as tricky as Jaybee when it comes to making deals was not to be trusted.
But what really shook me most-well, second most-when I came out of the anesthetic was the surprise Mr. Chang gave me. The former Mr. Chang, I should say-because wherever the bastard is (and I hope he's in hell, though he's more likely in a brothel) he's undoubtedly changed his name.
I know he used the name Li Po on the plane to Singapore, and there's some evidence that a Mr. Yo Ho, who was seen boarding a freighter for Hong Kong, was Chang. But there the trail peters out.
Wherever he was Bound for, Mr. Chang was travelling fast. And light. He only took one suitcase.
Full of my money.
The only things I'd owned he didn't sell-most likely because he'd forgotten about them-were the three Chinese restaurants I'd won in a poker game. I sold two of them, to raise money to hire a firm of investigators to run down Chang. Which was a total toss.
But I still have one left, so at least I'll never starve.
It's real handy for meals, too, since I live right in back in a little apartment (Mr. Chang sold my house, too-the bastard must have started selling off my property the moment I started up river).
Captain Alchai drops by from time to time. He seems quite happy that I've at last settled down. He sits and talks earnestly about Thailand's future-and politely looks the other way when I fix myself an opium pipe. I'm getting good at that, finally-I can empty a whole pipe in one inhalation.
If you ever get to Bangkok, look me up. I'll be glad to see you. Aside from Captain Alchai, I don't have many visitors.
The Tiger Lily came to see me once, just after I got out of the hospital, but she didn't stay long. And I know she won't be back.
It's not because I'm poor, you understand. At least, that's what she tells me. She just prefers to remember me the way I was before the crocs chewed the hell out of my face.
And bit off my right arm.
And both legs above the knee.
Not that it really matters. Even if she'd gotten so that she could look at me without flinching, even if she'd gotten the romantic urge, it wouldn't have done her much good. Or me any good.
Because those damn crocs bit off a little more than one ear, two legs and an arm.
But I don't think about that much these days. I smoke about ten or twelve pipes of opium a day, now; and to tell the truth, after the fourth or fifth I don't think very much about anything.
The funny thing is that, unlike most opium addicts, I don't dream much either. Maybe that's because dreams are really secret hopes. And there's nothing I secretly hope for now.
