Bangkok Haunts

up with humble eyes. “So you forgive me?”
    I slide my small hand over her big one. “Just be careful.”
    “You think I’ll destroy him?”
    “The other way around.”
    She looks up into the trees that surround the open-air restaurant. “He hardly even notices me, right? He’s not aware of me at all in that way.”
    “How do you think the girls feel, when they walk down Sukhumvit with those
farang
men who grin like Cheshire cats? Do they feel like they found the cream too or merely a dirty job that pays better than factory work?”
    She nods. “But the surgery, Sonchai. That’s just plain wrong.”
    I shrug. No point getting back into that. We let a good ten minutes pass, during which the restaurant has started to play some old rock music on the sound system. At other tables a young Thai couple are looking as if they intend to spend the afternoon in a hotel nearby; five male middle managers in their twenties are having a lunchtime booze-up on rice whiskey; some
farang
tourists are poring over a map; and cats roam under tables looking for scraps. The FBI says, “I’ll come with you. You need to go to Phnom Penh—a detective like you has to see for himself. I want to go too—I’m here for the case, after all. Anyway, I need a reality check. Maybe if I’m in a different country, I won’t think about him so much.”
    The FBI leaves me at Sala Daeng Skytrain station to go pack. I call Lek and tell him to meet me early this evening at his favorite
katoey
bar, called Don Juan’s. I go back to the station to deal with a pile of paperwork, then go home to change and to tell Chanya I’m going to Cambodia for a day or so with the FBI. She toys with jealousy for a moment, but it’s not enough to distract her from the soap she’s watching. Her egg-shaped center of gravity provides an imperturbable complacency these days. “I’m also going to see Lek’s
moordu,
” I admit.
    She looks at me for a moment to make sure I’m serious, then smiles. “About time. Tell me if he’s any good.”
    “It’s a
katoey,
” I explain.
    She makes big eyes. “Even better.”
Katoey
s are known to make excellent
moordus.
     
    There are plenty of different expressions to denote transsexuals:
second women, third sex, the different ones.
I like
Angels in Disguise
best. Don Juan’s is crammed with them. Smooth brown feminized flesh, padded bras and silicon-enhanced buttocks, plenty of jewelry—especially silver necklaces—shapely legs, lascivious laughter, cheap perfume, and sophisticated camp combine to lift desperate spirits for a night. You have to admire their guts. I hardly recognize Lek in his lipstick, rouge, and mascara; a tight T-shirt emphasizes his budding breasts. I think he is wearing jeans rather than a skirt for my sake. He squeezes between sisters to reach me, beaming. I don’t think he’s given the FBI a single thought since her last lovelorn call to him.
    “This is my boss, my
master,
” he tells his friends with unrestrained pride. “We’re working on the most
terrifying
case you can imagine.” He clamps a hand over his mouth. “But I can’t tell you
anything
about it, it’s so
secret.
”
    “Pi-Lek is such a tease!” a
katoey
in long imitation-pearl earrings exclaims. “It’s such a
privilege
to meet you. Pi-Lek has told us
all
about you—we know you’re the most
compassionate
cop in Bangkok, in the whole world probably. Pi-Lek says you’re already a private Buddha and stay on earth only to spread enlightenment. It’s such an
honor.
”
    “He exaggerates,” I say. “I’m just a cop.” It’s hard not to be borne along by the avalanche of charm.
    “Come,” Lek says, “let’s go find Pi-Da.” To his friends: “You can all run along now—my master hasn’t come to waste time with silly girls.” He waves a dismissive hand at them, provoking imitation tantrums and stamping of feet. He takes me by the hand to lead me through a crowd near the bar, then across to the other side of the room. His voice is considerably less camp when he says, “Pi-Da, this is my boss, Detective Jitpleecheep.”
    Pi-Da clearly belongs to the other category of
katoey.
In his forties, with a big round face, a paunch, and heavy legs, he was never beautiful, but his womanly soul must have yearned for self-expression all his life. Lek has explained he is a performer in the “ugly drag” cabarets that feature in most
katoey
bars, when they send up their own camp culture. He is also a kind of wise