The Big Weird
Fifth in the Vincent Calvino P.I. Series
Preface
I was in Asia when I first read
a Christopher Moore book. The novel was called A Killing Smile and
once I started reading it, I could not stop. With subsequent Moore
books, including The Big Weird, it has been exactly the same. The
plots and characters force you to turn the pages until you finish.
Moore’s writings are addictive
for a variety of reasons. The first is that his novels continue
that tradition of American private detective stories so cleverly
exemplified by Raymond Chandler. Like Chandler, Moore allows you
almost to smell the streets and to visualise the frail but very
human characters that occupy his literary landscape. But where Moore
differs from Chandler is that he exports the private eye genre to
Asia, a region with quite different smells and scenes from the more
familiar surrounds of North America. Indeed, there is a razor-sharp
edge to the settings that act as a background to his books - and
also a real sense that the reader is part of this background, a
fly-on-the-wall almost, soaking up the action that comes from the
bars, homes or offices of the principal characters.
Vinnie Calvino, for example,
Moore’s crusty but perceptive private detective in The Big Weird,
is someone the reader appears to have known for years. Calvino may
not be your best friend but you can at least understand where he
comes from and some of the reasons why he has given up his Big Apple
heritage for the fleshpots of Bangkok. And the fleshpots of Bangkok
feature prominently in all of Moore’s books including The Big Weird.
The bars and brothels buzz with the erotic tension of foreigners
and hookers playing mind-games with each other in pre-sexual rituals
that are a far cry from the romantic couplings found in a Mills
and Boon novel.
What Moore does so cleverly is
to give us a real sense of "the sickness" that a rootless
class of foreigners suffer from when they wash up onto the soils
of Thailand. This rootless class of foreigners some veterans from
the Vietnam war and some more recent refugees from western cities
have an obsession with the rich tapestry of sex so readily available
in their new home. This sickness is addictive, psychologically troubling
and sometimes deadly.
Though Moore’s books have a decidedly
sexual tone about them he is not concerned with just gratuitous
sex alone. Rather, the erotic elements in The Big Weird have to
be seen in the context of a wider sub-text that explores the cultural
and psychic undertones that characterise Thai society.
For Moore is one of the few westerners
writing stories about an Asian country who understands the way in
which the world is perceived by both foreigners and Thai alike -
and the huge gap between the misperceptions that both parties harbour.
For foreigners, Thai women are often vehicles for the unlimited
expression of their wildest and most deviant sexual and romantic
fantasies. The dark and slim bodies of the bargirls embody that
unique mixture of loving subservience and fleshy exuberance that
stand in sharp contrast to what foreigners perceive as the controlling
and sexually inhibited mind-set and bodies of western women.
But Moore’s books are not just
disguised cultural dissertations of Asian society and life. There
are pounding, adrenalin-charging episodes that throb through the
pages as Thai and western men and women struggle to survive in a
society where life is often brutal and short. The Big Weird exemplifies
a writer who is in control of his material. This book like his others
demonstrates that at last we have an author who understands the
abyss between the dreams and aspirations of westerners hoping for
a new life in an Asian land and the often-harsh reality that they
find.
As I said at the beginning, Christopher
Moore is a compelling writer. Much like Thailand itself his stories
become part of our own psyches, forcing us to return to that uncomfortable
space in our souls where the erotic and the violent live side by
side. In that sense his books explore universal questions about
the meaning of love, life and sometimes death. These are therefore
stories that transcend all cultures.
Chapter 3
After a couple of hours sleep,
the cold nose of joy nudged his arm. Calvino climbed out of bed,
took a cold shower, dressed, listened to the pile drivers as he
shaved. He fed Joy two cans of tuna mixed in cold white rice. Outside
his apartment, he saw a pack of soi dogs tear into the bamboo garbage
baskets which were lined up along the driveway. They were hungry.
The entire city had this non-stop hunger. He walked past the dogs
which many years ago had stopped noticing him. He was part of the
neighborhood. Then he took a taxi back to the Police Hospital opposite
Erawan Shrine. Howard Luce was there waiting, his Leica hanging
around his neck and he carried a bag over one shoulder.
"Hey, it's Vincent Calvino,
looking like a robber's dog." Howard was hamming it up in front
of his client. They had only seen each other a few hours ago and
Howard was acting as if they hadn't seen each other in years.
Calvino smiled. I still haven't
seen the photos of your Bangkok dog autopsies."
"Wait for the book,"
said Howard.
They had worked together a couple
of times for insurance companies including the time the farang was
pulled out of the Chao Phraya River after being submerged for five
days. And it was Calvino who had been at the police station with
Howard's motorcycle helmet under his arm as he was led out of jail.
"How's it going, Howard."
Then Luce arched one eyebrow
as he looked at the creature who stood on his right, "Khun
Vinee is my mate," he said. "You know mate is the Aussie
word for puen." The Thai word for friend registered and she
nodded, grinned.
"I hear you are working
for Quentin Stuart. In the movie business. Moving ahead, are we?
Not just another drop-kick yank, but you've moved up the scale to
become a Hollywood hanger-on."
Howard's friend moved alongside
Calvino. From the flaming red backless cocktail dress, the Adam's
apple, and breasts that were too good to be real, the extra large
highheels, it was as close as one could get to a dead certainty
that the friend was a katoey. A man who had become a woman with
a little help from a doctor's scalpel.
"This is Porntip,"
said Howard. "We've come to see the boyfriend."
Porntip fluttered her long, fake
eye-lashes. "Howard told me that we have a common friend."
"Who might that be?"
asked Calvino.
"Her street name is Ice."
Why doesn't that surprise me,
thought Calvino. Ice seemed to have her nails into just about every
counter-culture group in the Big Weird.
"Quentin's friend, Luk Pla,
took two bullets last night in front of the Plaza," said Calvino.
Howard lit a cigarette and sucked
in long and hard as if he was going to inhale the entire cigarette
on the first hit. His eyes were ringed with black like someone who
never slept, or like a raccoon, someone who only went out at night.
In Howard's case, both were true.
"Porntip's farang boyfriend
had an unfortunate accident in prison. First the drongo gets his
ass busted for heroin. Turns out that he was a diabetic. He needed
his kit to inject himself. The guards thought he was just another
junkie wanting a fix so they wouldn’t give it to him.
"He said, 'Hey, man, I'm
sick. I am gonna die without my insulin."
"Fuck that. Die you bastard,
they said. After a few days, true to his word, he went into shock
and corked it. Porntip wants some pictures so she can make a case
against the cops. Maybe she can get the family to hire you. The
guy's family has some money."
Porntip's garlic breath was close
to Calvino's face as she whispered, "His family is very rich."
"How well do you know Ice?"
Calvino asked her. He had heard most of Howard's version earlier
in the Thermae, but he had left out the part of how Porntip had
a plan of her own to try and get money out of the police. That was
a nice twist, thought Calvino.
"Why you want to talk about
her?" asked Porthip.
"Because women around Ice
seem to be getting themselves shot. Especially her close friends.
Not that I am saying you are a close friend of Ice."
This wiped the smile from the
katoey's face.
"Many guns in Thailand.
Can be dangerous sometimes."
"Maybe she talked about
her friends getting shot." He looked over at Howard who winked.
"She told me how this mem
shot herself."
"Farang have a hell've time
staying outta jail and staying alive," said Howard.
"Howard, your observations
are most useful."
"I reckon you're right.
Why don't you come along. I'll do my job, and you can do your's,
" said Howard.
The three of them walked down
the hallway, the katoey wedged between Howard and Calvino. She was
the center of attention, smiling, holding her head high, chin pointed
up. They walked straight into the morgue. Howard lit a handrolled
cigarette, rolled another one and handed it to an attendant who
was eating a bowl of noodles.
"You got a farang in here?"
Howard asked, he half-turned and winked at Calvino.
The attendant nodded, spooning
in a mouthful of noodles. "Great, we'd like to have a look
if that's okay. Don't want to disturb your lunch or anything."
Howard lit the attendant's cigarette
and then they followed him through a set of doors into a room with
heavy metal fridge doors on the walls. He pulled out one of the
drawers and loaded the corpse onto a stainless steel table and wheeled
the table to the center of the room. There was the color of the
Big Weird sky all over the body. The aftermath of an autopsy had
left a long, crude gash in the main cavity and thick, rough stitches
zigzagged along the edges of the skin. From the perforated body,
fluids, with the viscosity of thin maple syrup, leaked onto the
table and dripped onto the floor. No one said anything as Howard
opened his bag and changed the lens on his camera. Calvino watched
as the attendant held up a hand.
"Wait," the attendant
said in Thai.
"Wait for what?" asked
Howard lowering the camera. "Jesus, I want to get this job
over with."
Porntip had gone pale, tears
smeared her make-up, making her look more like a man by the minute.
The attendant walked over to
a set of stainless steel drawers and removed along length of plastic
hose. He walked back to the table, dropped his cigarette on the
floor drain, then he stuck one end of the hose into the body of
the dead man and began sucking on the other end as if he were siphoning
petrol. At the last moment, he pulled the hose out of his mouth,
the yellowish liquid spilled down the drain.
"Fucking, gross," said
Howard. "You see that Calvino."
Porthip was vomiting her guts
out down the same drain, holding her head between her legs. She
gasped for air. No question about it, Porntip was a mess. Howard
snapped several shots of her bent over retching down the same drain
that the hose was carrying the run-off from her dead boyfriend.
The attendant pulled the hose out of the body, lit another cigarette
and sat down on a folding chair to one side. Porntip was wobbly
as she rose back to her feet. Howard had his shots of the emotionally
worked-up katoey and, after that, he took no notice of her as he
circled the table, the flash showering the room with a brilliant,
incandescent light. Calvino helped Porntip move away from the table
and the body.
"These shots ought to look
good in the family album," said Howard, changing lenses. "Here's
a picture of our son on holiday in Bangkok. Looking a bit drained."
Like many photo-journalists, he talked to himself as he worked a
job. He never stopped talking; he could have talked under wet cement.
It was a way of keeping himself assured that he was still alive,
something he did as he waited out long stretches during the night,
standing a lone vigil for next act of Big Weird violence to leave
a subject for him to photograph.
"What did Ice tell you about
the night that the mem killed herself?" Calvino asked.
At first Porntip either did not
hear or she did not understand what Calvino had said.
"Ice?"
"Your best friend."
"Oh, Ice."
"She told you the story
about the mem?"
"She saw mem kill herself,"
Porntip said, covering her mouth with both hands, showing her long,
red nails. "I promised not to tell anyone. Please don't tell
her that I told you. Pleassse." The shock of the body and all
that vomiting had softened up Porthip.
"Ice saw the mem pop herself?"
asked Calvino.
Once again Porntip nodded. She
had the look of someone telling the truth, but, then, she had the
look of a woman when she had been born a nun.
"Was there anyone else in
the room that night?
"Loads of people,"
said Porntip.
Howard had stopped shooting and
was packing away his equipment. He rolled himself another cigarette
and watched the attendant finishing his bowl of noodles.
"The guy didn't even gargle
before he tucked back into his noodles. It makes you wonder what
would put him off his lunch," said Howard.
"Did Ice mention any names
of the people who were there the night Sam died?"
"Hey, Calvino, the next
thing you'll be sticking a hose down my client's throat for information."
Calvino ignored him. "Well,
did she?"
Porntip gave a sly smile, fluttered
her eyelids, "Now that really would be breaking my promise."
Calvino removed a blue thousand
baht note from his wallet and held it out.
"Corruption is a contagious
disease, Calvino," said Howard, his eyes buried in dark, sunken
eyeholes flashing as the money came out.
Porntip took the money and handed
it to Howard.
"Your fee," she said.
"Howard, you surprise me,
I thought you had been vaccinated for all communicable disease."
Howard handed her three rolls
of films. "I'm keeping the blue as evidence so when you come
to trial, they can nail your ass," he said.
After they were back on the street,
Howard disappeared on his motorcycle leaving behind a haze of blue
smoke. Calvino, took Porntip into the hospital canteen and ordered
coffee. What he got in return was two more names at the scene of
Samantha McNeal's death. The names of two people close at hand:
Quentin Stuart and Luk Pla.
First edition (1996) /
Current edition (2000) Heaven Lake Press, 272 pp.
 
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