The Extinct

CHAPTER

19





Bangkok is tightly packed on the east bank of the Chao Phraya River, its brown-green waters winding past the tenements and buildings and temples like a guardian watching his charge. It has the feeling of a modern city built over an ancient one, centuries-old Buddhist temples with crimson colored roofs and golden spirals pointing skyward nestled in between twenty-first century office buildings and hotels. The traffic was frequently congested to the point of immobility; cars, three-wheeled rickshaws with motorcycle engines, bicycles and brightly colored buses all vying for space on the narrow roads.

Being so close to the river, the city was also a green landscape of palm trees bursting forth from the ground in between the office buildings and residential tenements with finely manicured shrubs in front of the contemporary hotels and auditoriums that were found everywhere. The people were not unfriendly but were so hurried that tourists occasionally thought so. Many of them had the dark complexions of the Mongol hordes that conquered and devastated the land nearly a millennia ago.

At night, many of the temples and hotels would light up with red and purple and blue lighting, attempting to attract the swarms of tourists that were always clamoring for entertainment. It is also the home of all the major commercial enterprises and banks of Thailand and a major hub for foreign businessmen interested in Southeast Asia. The sidewalks and roads are always swarming with men and women in business suits, cell phones glued to their ears.

But above all, it’s a city meant for tourists, and tourists seek excitement and pleasure. And like any city designed for pleasure, vice is king. When night falls, the go-go clubs turn to strip joints and brothels, any dancer for sale for the right price. As the night wears on, in some of the districts where law enforcement makes no more than unskilled laborers and is easily bought, child prostitutes can be found as easily as a drink of beer. Pedophiles come from the world over to abuse children as young as they wish. Drugs are also prominent, heroin and opium easily found on any street corner or in any smoke-filled bar. At night, life is cheap.

Eric Holden knew this the second he stepped off the plane just under a year ago. He sat now on the porch of a ten dollar a week hostel, drunk though the morning had just begun. His clothes were unwashed and he hadn’t shaved in months. The hostel faced a busy street and he watched the overflowing traffic struggle to move forward, the odd businessman or police officer glancing toward him.

“Come back bed baby,” Lily said from behind him, the sheet wrapped around her nude body. She was short with long black hair but had big ruby lips that seemed disproportionate to her small face.

“Your English is terrible,” Eric said.

“I learn good. In school. And I watch A-mer-ican TV.”

Eric stood and walked back inside, Lily following him to his room. The hostel was two floors of rooms no bigger than closets with only one bathroom and shower on the first floor. There were cockroaches but they were easy to grow accustomed to. The rats were a bigger problem, their squeaks and the patter of their feet against the wood floors at night making sleep difficult.

Eric pulled a handful of cash out of a pair of pants that lay on the ground and handed it to Lily. She smiled and dropped the sheet, her sleek body curvy and soft to the touch. Eric ran his fingers along her breasts and put his mouth to hers, dragging her to the bed.



When they finished Eric watched her get dressed, putting on a miniskirt with no underwear and high-heels. She straightened her hair using the reflection in a window and came over to Eric to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“I see you night,” she said.



“Not tonight.”



“But I make very good yum yum,” she said, running her hand over his chest.



“Get out,” he said as he reached for a pack of cigarettes that lay on a small table. As she left, he lit a cigarette and sat up in the bed. The sheet was pockmarked with gray and black cigarette burns and the room smelled like mold, but he’d stopped noticing such trivial things. He had bigger problems; his money was almost gone and he couldn’t get legitimate work without a work permit that needed to be approved by the U.S. embassy.

Eric pulled a small black canvas bag out from under the bed. It held a needle, a length of cord, a spoon, and a small plastic baggie filled with the fluffy white powder of heroin. He cooked it up and tied the cord around his bicep, using his teeth to hold it tight, and injected the urine colored fluid into a vein. H was so relaxing he’d lost control of his bowels the first time he’d tried it, but not anymore. He could function on it now. A girl had gotten him to try it his first few weeks here, he remembered. What was her name? An American girl stripping here. She had dirty blond dreads and muscles that bulged underneath her clothes. They’d gotten high and tried to have sex but he’d passed out and she didn’t really have the urge to keep going. What was her name?

He itched a rash on his arms that was starting to turn red and leaned his head against the wall, the warmth of the drug spreading through his body; into his heart, down his legs, up into his head. It made his scalp tingle and his face hot, every muscle limp and motionless, his eyelids straining to remain open. He sat for four hours staring at the walls and listening to the traffic outside. Finally, his vision swirled, and he fell asleep.