“Christ, I hope so. We could use a break.” Harvey leaned forward. “So what are we supposed to do in the meantime? Sit around and let the murderers stay free?”
“Max isn’t so sure that Sanders is behind the murders or the kidnapping.”
“Then who?”
“He doesn’t know. He just said he has his doubts.”
“And what about you, Sara? Do you have your doubts?”
“I guess I do.”
“Well, it makes sense to me,” Harvey said. “Sanders kidnapped Michael to stall the clinic, plain and simple. Markey knew that I was the only person who had worked on Michael—”
“And Eric.”
Confusion crossed Harvey’s face for a brief moment. “No, Sara. I mean, as far as having physical contact with the patient. I gave Michael all his SR1 injections. I always drew his blood. I—”
“Eric took his blood too.”
Harvey stopped. “When?”
“I don’t know. A day or two before he was kidnapped.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I was right there. Is that a problem?”
He shook his head. “It’s just weird,” he said slowly. “I left strict instructions for no one to do any lab work or give any medication to Michael except me.”
“Maybe he didn’t see them,” Sara said. “Or maybe he forgot.”
“Maybe,” Harvey agreed, but he did not sound convinced.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I will,” he said, “as soon as he gets back.” Harvey looked up and tried to smile reassuringly. He failed. “Don’t look at me like that, Sara. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“HEY, Joe, you want live sex show? Pea shooting contest, huh? Sound good, Joe? Pea shooting contest?”
“Pea shooting contest?” Max repeated.
“Yeah, sure, Joe. You like pea shooting contest. She aim straw and bust balloon. Guess what she blows with. Huh, Joe?”
Max, no stranger to quirky sexual situations, was not sure he understood what the Thai teenager was talking about. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Years ago, before he had met Lenny, Max and a couple of friends spent a week in Amsterdam’s red-light district. They had seen a show where a woman projected various objects across a room using a certain part of her anatomy. Admittedly, most people would consider Max’s sexual orientation bizarre, but he failed to see the show’s eroticism no matter which particular sexual persuasion you happened to follow. More like watching an amazing pet trick or a strange magic show.
“What you say, Joe? You want nice woman. Make your head spin all the way around.”
An interesting image. “Which head?”
“Huh, Joe?”
“Never mind. No, thanks.”
He forced his way through the clusters of sex merchants, keeping his eye on the pink neon sign that read “Eager Beaver.” Two men stood at the door. The smaller man greeted Max with a wide smile and a firm handshake; the larger greeted him with a menacing glare. Mutt and Jeff.
“Welcome,” the little one shouted above the loud disco music. “Please come in. You find everything you want here. No cover charge.”
“Thanks.”
Max ducked past the sumo-sized doorman and entered the Eager Beaver. The interior decorator must have worked on the original Dating Game. Very sixties. Very go-go-bar-like. Mod Squad decor. Psychedelic, multicolored lights.
The music was strictly Saturday Night Fever. The singer screamed about a burning, burning disco inferno. Despite the fast beat, the topless women (a string bikini bottom made them topless rather than fully naked) danced slowly on the bar, the same steps over and over again. Max stared at their faces, but none looked back. Each wore a bored expression—dead, unseeing eyes that lit up only when money was jammed into their crotches.
Michael is in here somewhere . . .
“Swing it, baby!” a man yelled.
The girl smiled and obliged. She got 100 Thai baht (four dollars) for her trouble. She lowered herself toward the man, enticing him to add to her booty, but he waved her off.
The crowd was a mix. Hard-core hard-ups. Curious tourists. Married couples. Thais, Japanese, Americans, Italians, Germans, Australians—a horny United Nations. In a corner, people cheered a sexual act that defied both belief and biological realities. Ripley’s, Max thought. Or even Guinness. Two naked women were on their hands and knees, one Asian, one black. They were—Jesus, he couldn’t believe it—shooting bananas across the room with their vaginas. Bananas, for chrissake. A man marked the spot where they landed, measuring the distance traveled like he was working the discus toss at the Olympics. Another man kept loading their vaginas with bananas, as though the two women were human grenade launchers. Banana after banana rocketed across the room to the roar of the crowd.
Max turned away.
Michael is close by . . .
He sat at the bar in a seat that spun all the way around. Max liked it and began to twirl himself like a kid at a diner. Nearly two seconds passed before a Thai girl approached him, dressed in Classical American Hooker Drag. Tank top with satin shorts that not only rode up the crotch but actually dug a deeper crevice. The whores varied in age, but this one looked like she had just gotten a hold of Mommy’s makeup case.
“Hi,” she said.
She was no more than fifteen and had smooth, beautiful skin. Her looks were startling fresh and engaging, in the baby-doll mode so many men found attractive.
“Hi.”
Her smile was wide, bright, and somehow cunning. “You buy me drink?”
“Why not? What would you like?”
“What you having?”
“Vodka on the rocks.”
“I have same, please.”
Max signaled the bartender and gave him the order. The bill came to twelve dollars—five dollars for his drink, seven for the girl’s. Before Max could protest, the bartender pointed to the sign. “Beer—$3 Liquor—$5 Hostess Drinks—$7.”
Hostess?
“What your name?” she asked.
“Max.”
“Nice name. You live in America, Max?”
He began to twist his hair around his finger. “Yes.”
“Nice place, no?”
“I like it.”
“How come you always moving, Max?”
“We call it fidgeting.”
“How come you always fidgeting, Max?”
“Don’t know.”
“You in Bangkok on business or pleasure?”