Klempner – Thailand
Swiping down the counter, I wipe away slops, discarded prawn shells and peanut fragments.
The bar is just what you would expect; lowered lighting, luridly coloured over the stage area where a glitterball twists, reflecting whirling pinpricks of green, blue and red. The shelves are well-stocked for both the locals and the tourists, with names both familiar and unfamiliar to me. Some of them you’d expect, but who comes to Thailand and asks for the local vodka? And the regional wines are revolting – sickly sweet and syrupy. But then Thailand’s hardly known for its grape growing either. There’s Johnnie Walker on display for those that want it, but most of the ‘whiskey’ on display is actually rum.
The liquor mainly drunk by the locals, lao khao, is brewed from rice. They call it ’40 Degree’. After half a glass of the stuff set my ears on fire, I avoided it.
I have a glass on the bar to sip from, for appearance sake, and I stick to soda water.
On the stage, a girl cavorts around a pole. The sequined bikini bottom she’s wearing is minimalist, to say the least. She moves, she thinks, suggestively. She’s called Achara they tell me, which apparently means something like ‘pretty angel’ in Thai.
In fact, she’s over-obvious, but it suits the clientele. They’re not here for conversation. The light kaleidoscopes over her, a swirling mass of multi-coloured dots that highlight her shape, stretching to ovals over her breasts and hips, shrinking to spots at her waist and neck, and reflecting from the silver sparkle at her loins.
How old?
Sixteen?
Maybe…
In any case, she’s mature enough to have filled out in the right spots and her tits swing with her rhythm as she grinds her pelvis against the pole.
The bar’s busy, humming with customers; all male, most watching the girl over the tops of their glasses; cocktails bedecked with umbrellas, silk flowers and other crap bling.
One, fat, middle-aged and wet-lipped; shoves his cocktail glass across the bar. “I’ll have a Tequila Sunrise.”
I can’t remember the damned ingredients for the cocktail, but I have a phone propped below the counter.
Not my phone, just a phone… a recipe app open and at the ready.
Bending low, with a pretence of pulling out a cocktail glass, a clone of the one he just passed back, and giving it a quick polish, I tap in for the recipe. Then realising he’s mixing his drinks and I need a tall glass instead, I make a quick change and a grab for the grenadine.
Most of the bar is humming, but one table is kept clear; the best.
Slightly set back from the main floor, it’s shielded by partitions and plants. There’s no direct line of sight into the area, although anyone seated there would have a perfect view of the stage.
Its current occupant arrived early, flanked by a solid wall of thugs; the kind who specialise in low foreheads edged at the bottom by a single eyebrow.
Decha Chuan; the man who runs the local protection and money laundering, owns most of the brothels and bars, and organises the local ‘agriculture’; the farming of opium poppies, with the distribution of the resulting heroin to the outside world.
For Chuan, human trafficking is almost a side-line.
He’s neatly but expensively dressed, in a casual suit that belies what it probably cost. Not a tall man, he struts like some bantam rooster as he makes his way to the table. Once seated, he is out of sight.
Even if I were willing to try in so public a place, I’d have no chance of reaching him, surrounded by a double rank of his heavies. They straighten up to a sort of attention, some standing almost tall enough for their knuckles not to trail in the dust.
Settled in place, one of their number detaches himself from the thuggery, crossing to the bar. He seems a cut above the rest, strolling with a relaxed gait as his gaze sweeps the room.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“I’ll have a chilli gin cocktail.”
“Coming right up.”
I stoop to go through my performance, get a glass, tap into the app…
Damn…
Not listed…
As I straighten up again, his mouth quirks. “You know the recipe?”
“Um… Remind me.”
“Tall glass, slit the chilli and mash it in. Lime juice, then ice. Gin. Top it off with tonic.”
“On it now, sir.”
He watches as I slice the chilli then beat the thing half to death in the glass with a wooden spoon.
“You’ve not been a barman long.”
I give him my best cheesy grin. “Can’t remember all the blasted recipes…”
He raises eyebrows…
“No, not long,” I admit.
“How long?”
“Um, three days actually.” I pass him the glass and he sips, then smacks his lips.
“Not bad for a first attempt. Like the work?”
I shrug. “It’s work.”
He offers his hand. “Kiet Arak.”
I take the hand. “Gunnar Zetterberg.”
“Gunnar?” His brows rise. “Norwegian?”
“Swedish.”
“Your English is very good.”
“So’s yours.”
He sweeps a hand across the room. “I have to work with the tourists.” He pauses, apparently considering. “You’re a long way from home, Gunnar. Why would you choose to work here?”
“Because it’s a long way from home.” My hands need a prop. I pick up a cloth and start polishing glasses…
Isn’t that what a barman does?
He tilts his head, mouth opening a little. “Ahh…”
I nod across to the sheltered table and the throng of hoods. “Who’s your boss?”
That mouth-quirk again. “He’s your boss too.”
“Oh?”
“Mr Chuan owns this bar.”
“Shouldn’t you be over there with him? I’d have thought he wanted his minders close…” I jerk a thumb at the minions… “… rather than exchanging small-talk with the barkeep.”
He sniffs. “He likes his bodyguards close, yes. I’m his Head of Security.”
I pause in my polishing. “A bar owner who needs a Head of Security?”
Rocking his hand, “Mr Chuan’s business runs a little wider than just owning a bar.” He taps his nose. “A word to the wise. He’s an important man around here. Don’t cross him.”
At the end of the bar, one of the customers is getting loud, his voice slurring.
Too much vodka…
I call out, “Hey, calm it down there.”
He turns, weaving as he stands, thrusting his glass onto the counter. “Another.”
I amble down, weighing up the blood-shot eyes, the sweat-washed face. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
He came for the women…
He’ll not be much good for them in that condition…
“Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, barkeep. I know your boss. He’ll…”
Yeah… right…
“I don’t think that’s very likely. Now cool it. You had enough. This is a reputable joint. I’m not serving you any more alcohol. Tell you what. Go watch the show…” I head-point him to where the dancer’s act is edging on gynaecological… “I’ll bring you a pot of coffee.”
Arak, perched on his stool, watches with cool interest.
“You fucker!” The drunk lurches forward, reaching to grab me from across the counter…
… as if he’d be able to do anything from there…
Useless pisshead…
Good timing though…
Stepping out from behind the bar, I take him by the arm, heading him for the exit. “Alright, you’re done here.”
The bouncers standing on the door perk up, moving my way but I’m ahead of them.
The drunk’s fists flail…
You feeling lucky?
… but I simply slap them to the side with one hand, punching into his gut with the other. He curls in on himself, trying to clutch his stomach, but I grab his arm again, now twisting back and up, pinning his wrist behind him.
Heads are turning, including Chuan’s monkeys-on-parade. “Out you go,” I say. “This isn’t your kind of place.” Arm locked against his spine, I frog-march Lucky-Boy to the exit.
At the door, I spin him around and, reaching into his jacket, take out his wallet from the inside pocket. “You’ve not paid your bill.”
Extracting a couple of notes, I tuck the wallet back into the pocket, give him a quick pat on the cheek, then push him backwards out into the street. “Go make trouble somewhere else.”
Arak regards me, straight-faced, as I put the cash into the till. “He might have spent more money on the girls.”
“Not in that condition he wouldn’t have. Or if he had, it would have been money wasted.”
His eyes crease in humour. “True enough. Nicely done. You handle yourself well.”
I shrug. “You’ve got to know how to look after yourself these days.”
“True.” But Arak’s brow knits as he sips his cocktail.
*****