MAS-Zine
#4
Pirates!
Autumn
2003
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MAS-Zine
#4 |
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Teaser
for SHARK CALLING SHARK CALLING For Ray, the most tedious part of any plane trip was the gap of time near the end of the flight. The entertainment value of all possible magazines, movies, and seatmate conversation had been exhausted, but it was still too soon to peer out the window and watch the land return, or to start jockeying to grab his overhead luggage. He tucked away the last thing he'd been reading, a queer-community newspaper from New Zealand, next to the gay travel guide to Australia. He had to remember to shove those down into his backpack when they'd arrived. Fun as it was to freak out airline security guys in America, he didn't know how it would go over at customs in the Solomons. Bored and restless, Ray glanced across the aisle. The man sitting there, tapping at a laptop in between muttering into a micro-recorder, caught Ray's attention. Hindustani like Ray, he had the same light olive complexion. What made Ray glance back, and back again, was the other man's balding, weedy ugliness, set off by the most unfortunate pink button-down shirt in the world. Ray averted his eyes when the man looked around. Ray knew he looked like a Moghul prince in contrast. If he'd always been handsome, he might have taken it in stride, but he hadn't. It had all come together suddenly at sixteen. It had taken him two years to finally realize it, in tandem with him coming out – and he had spent the next four years dealing with one thing after another because of it. Good looks had brought him a lot of attention. It wasn't until last year that he'd finally gotten a clue, that that sort of attention often wasn't worth it. Straight men who liked him ranted to him about all the girls they'd fuck if they looked like him. Straight men who maybe felt they weren't so straight when they looked at him in a locker room threatened to beat his pretty-boy faggot ass. Women friends fell in love with him. Gay guys either took it in stride, or were the worst about it. Occasionally someone hit on him to the point of harassment, or even assumed he was for sale. (Accepting that one crazy offer, he had decided, didn't make him a prostitute.) Glancing across the aisle, he decided that it still beat the alternative. As Ray watched, the man reached into the seat pocket and pulled out his arrival card. He drew a gold pen out of that limp business shirt and began filling it in. Ray scrambled in his messenger bag for a ballpoint, and dug out his own arrival card. When he was done, he looked at the card, amused at how it encapsulated him for the waiting immigration authorities. "Name: Raymond K. Patel." His last name, exotic to an American's ear, was the Indian subcontinent's equivalent of Smith or Jones. "Nationality: American. Occupation: Student. Reason for Visit: Vacation. Length of Stay: June 1st – June 8th." After those basics, he read the rest of the form and checked off a long line of "No" items. He thought, if I was carrying illegal drugs, explosives, edged weapons, or flammable chemicals, it's not like I would tell them. After scrawling his signature along the bottom of the form, he tucked it into his passport. Soon, he heard the lush-voiced steward reading the landing requirements over the intercom, ending with, "Thank you for flying Air Micronesia, and enjoy your stay in the Solomon Islands. Our estimated time of arrival at Honiara International Airport, Guadalcanal Island is six-twenty-three." When they landed, there was the usual scramble to get off the plane. Remorseful about his vain thoughts earlier, Ray helped a few people, including the ugly businessman, get their luggage down. He still managed to be one of the first people off the plane. Rattling down the stairs, he stood stunned on the tarmac. After the plane, the air was warm, voluptuous with humidity. He was reminded of visits to India. Even better, the airport's sky was overwhelmed with a spectacular Pacific sunset, purple and orange and hot pink firing the sky. For an instant, he thought about reaching for his camera, then decided not to. He could take plenty of pictures tomorrow. For now, he'd just enjoy, before going through Customs. *** In the airport lounge, Vaisul glanced up at the fluorescent light above. It was buzzing annoyingly. The way things had been falling apart lately in Honiara, it was surprising it still worked. He loosened his stiff tie, then tugged his tight suit jacket out of its wrinkles across his broad shoulders, all the while still holding the sign: MR. PATEL – MESSAGE. Glancing at his hands holding the sign, he saw that his pale skin had a pasty note from the disagreeable light. One of the airport staff sidled up to Vaisul – the one they bribed on a regular basis, Piliko. "They comin' through Customs now," Piliko whispered, his head at the level of Vaisul's shoulder. Vaisul nodded, impassive, and waited. He hadn't received much information about this job, but it seemed simple enough, and they'd done it several times before. The door swung open, and the passengers from the evening flight began to trail through, one at a time, into the waiting circle of people come to meet them. Vaisul ignored everyone dragging luggage carts squeaking under crates of food, anyone hauling along the cheap woven bags of a poor man's luggage, anyone too pale or too dark. He gripped the sign with a new rigidity when the first possible match came out - dark hair, golden skin, strikingly handsome - and turned directly towards him, reading the sign. Taking the bait, the passenger began to walk over. Vaisul took his measure as he came. Younger than he'd expected – a rich man's son, he thought, with the looks of a rich man's wife. Probably sent down to deal with the logging branch in Honiara as a way of bringing him into his father's business; he looked more like he planned to enjoy himself at the beaches. Vaisul stiffened with resentment as the young man came up to him, radiating happy entitlement, as if everything centered around him. "Hey," the passenger said, looking him up and down, "I'm Ray Patel – is the message for me?" He had the clear English of someone educated in America, very easy to understand despite the hard, flat vowels of the accent. Vaisul felt his own voice thick in his throat. "Do you have an ID?" The young man flashed his passport. "Is it about my tickets or something?" he asked, distress beginning to dawn. Vaisul began to move fast. "Just small problem. This way?" He gestured towards a short corridor, and the young man let himself be herded along. "Cool accent. Where are you from? Europe?" his victim asked, cheerfully. Vaisul looked away from the dark, fluid eyes and the smile whiter than coconut. He decided it was easier for him to deal with ugly rich men. "Through here," was all he said in response, holding open a door. He looked back at Piliko, who had followed them discreetly, and nodded. The young man strode through, then paused. The knot in Vaisul's stomach relaxed, for the others were waiting. Their victim turned, and when Vaisul saw the angry, fearful expression, he knew there was no more time. But it had been enough. With his sniper's sharp ears, Vaisul had heard the door behind them click locked. * * * For one shocked instant, Ray looked at the two heavies with guns in front of him, both rough-looking guys, one with dreadlocks – he would have thought twice about following either of them anywhere - then up at the guy who'd led him into the trap. Fuck, I thought he was built for an airport guy. Fucking hell! I live in New York twenty-two years and I have to go around the world to get mugged? Ray looked back at the guys with guns, heavy rifles, and reached into his cargo pants for his wallet, resigned as any other New Yorker. "Uh, it's cool, guys," he said. "We are wanting more than that, Mr. Patel. You are coming with us." As the words poured into his ears, the Slavic accent as out of place and chilling as cold vodka, he felt a jab of metal against his ribs, blunt and bruising, then held against his spleen. "Is a gun. With silencer." "I think you've got the wrong guy—" The gun rammed him again, so he tried a different tack. "If you want money –" "No, you are right man; you show us yourself." Ray saw one of the two riflemen turn away, and the other lowered his gun to point directly at Ray. Horror filled him as he saw the utter indifference in the man's face, nearly lost in the shadows. "Give him the bags," said the man beside him, and he handed over his messenger bag and backpack. This done, Ray looked up at the guy who'd led him into the trap. He'd looked official enough, with his buzzed black hair and the suit and the sign. A nice setup, and it had worked. He saw now that his strong-faced assailant's nose and jaw were a touch off kilter, as if something had been broken once and healed awry. Ray was tall but this guy was taller, and meaty with it, beef and bone packed into the gray suit. As Ray looked, the other man met his gaze with eyes that, though small, tilted up at the corners. Any charm that might have given him was neutralized by his angry monobrow, and he scowled and replaced his pistol neatly up against Ray's sweating ribs. Ray blazed with hope for an instant as a car swerved towards them, headlights on. Before he could yell, the rifleman with his bags signaled the car. Ray subsided as the guy opened the back door. "In," said the one in the suit, still poking the gun at him. No sooner was he in than the suited man thudded in beside him and grabbed the collar of his shirt, jerking him down, forcing Ray's head against his thigh. Ray felt the cold lozenge of the gun's silencer against his neck, and did not move. Heavy doors slammed - from his glimpse of the car, it was an old American road hog, a Cadillac or Chrysler. He tried to turn his head to peer around for more details, but the gun stabbed at him. If he shoots me, thought Ray, will the bullet stay in my head or go through his own leg? He slid forwards on the vinyl seat as the car jerked forwards. "Hands behind back," the guy said, and Ray obeyed. Who puts on a suit to kidnap me? What the fuck's going on? White slavers? Not that I'm white. Was I the only American on the flight? Ray was jostled around on the ride. Forcing his panic down, he collected all the details he could for when he got to talk to the local cops about this. Night had fallen quickly, and the car filled alternately with shadows and flashes from streetlights. For all that his main assailant cut a fine figure in a suit, the suit itself was cheap, its gray fabric scratchy. The leg beneath it was hard as a log. Ray's nose was filled with the odor of the guy's sweat, collected in the suit, musky, not skunky. Shifting a bit, he felt that he had been forced down with his face turned towards the thug's crotch, and closed his eyes. Above him, the three guys started talking, in something he could barely follow, on the thick edge of English but not quite – the local pidgin, probably. They sounded happy. Eventually, the car paused, went further through unbroken darkness, and ground to a stop. Doors banged open. His own private assailant hauled him out last of all, keeping a gun close to him. Ray's glance around showed him metal siding buildings and a chain-link fence, obscure against what seemed to be a heavy forest. The suited gunman hustled Ray along, Ray's mind snapping images as he went; double doors, a sign he couldn't catch, green on white, a cinderblock hallway, office doors, the kind with frosted glass, a solid door shoved open, and a blindingly bright room. He blinked at the three figures waiting there; two more massive gunmen flanking a very ordinary-looking Asian man. Well, isn't this special, he thought. We are the world. The Honiara mob, equal-opportunity employer· Ray was poked into the middle of the room, and four rifles were pointed at him. Without thinking, he put his hands up, and watched as his suited kidnapper, with some smugness, handed Ray's ticket folder to the Asian man. The recipient flicked it open, and everyone, the gunmen included, held their breath. The Asian man's power became clear as the gunmen grew stiff watching him. At his leisure, he read the ticket and scrutinized the passport. He turned to one side and spat, and Ray grew more nervous as the gunmen winced. The leader glared at the guy in the suit and snapped something in pidgin that made everyone flinch. When the leader lifted his eyes to look at Ray, Ray felt his heart in his throat. For a moment, the Asian man tapped Ray's ticket folder in his hand. Then he spoke in very precise English. "You," he said, "are the wrong Patel. But now that you are here, tell me; what are you worth?" Ray said, "What?" The leader gestured. "Who do you work for?" "I – nobody. I'm a student." The man sighed. He snapped an incomprehensible order at one of the gunmen, who dumped out Ray's messenger bag. Ray winced as his Palm Pilot bounced on the floor. Then, at their leader's yelling, the guy in the suit plucked Ray's wallet out of his side pocket. It took them this long to get my wallet? I'm the wrong guy? No wonder the boss is mad, Ray thought. But he saw the leader look slightly appeased at the wallet's contents, plucking out cards as if they were rare butterflies. Not his credit cards; his student ID, his driver's license. Again, his fast fingers opened the ticket folder, and he gave Ray's passport a gloating look. Tucking the cards he had chosen into it, he kept the ticket folder. Whatever he said next made most of the gunmen relax a little. He talked for a while. However he concentrated, Ray couldn't unpick the pidgin. The gunmen were nodding. When they lowered their rifles, Ray started to slide his hands down - and he yelped as his wrists were seized, turning up to see the man in the suit. He broke the startled man's grip, and things escalated. Two more of the gunmen pounced on him, and they had him spread-eagled and yelling in a less than a minute. Finally, after some impotent scuffling, they managed to trap both his wrists into a pair of handcuffs, exactly as the suited guy planted a kick in his gut that made him double over. Instantly, a thick hand smacked him, hard enough to cut his mouth against his own teeth, and he was hauled up. When his vision cleared, only two guys remained in front of him; the very exasperated-looking leader, and the suited man fumbling with something like a cellphone. "Mister Patel. Can you please inform us of the access numbers for these cards?" He held up his hand; Ray's blue ATM card and his red credit card flashed. The men holding Ray arched him straight, and as he watched, the suited man seemed to master his cellphone at last. It uttered an electronic sizzle, and a line of purple light blazed across the top of it. "Fuck," Ray breathed. It wasn't a cellphone at all; he knew the sizzle of a hand-held stun gun. They were a favorite toy of showier leather guys, the sort of thing you tossed around in a bar and never got around to using unless you honestly were a sadist. The leader, reading Ray's recognition and curse as refusal, grew grim and gestured towards him. One of the thugs to his left yanked his shirt up, and the suited man stepped forwards. Ray could have sworn his monobrow lifted and he swallowed as he scanned Ray's torso. He lowered the stun-gun over Ray and moved it up, just an inch away from his skin. After Ray stayed silent, he touched the blazing bar of it down on one brown nipple. The pain was worse than he'd expected, as if the flesh was being burned off, and he screamed. The three men holding him down gripped him harder as he bucked. Each of the six times that followed, the simmering purple line of electricity torturing different points on his chest, Ray's screams became more torn. Ray missed the gesture that stilled this, but heard the leader's voice again. "Perhaps you have a different answer for me? I do not have all night." Two hands released Ray, then one of the rifles clicked. The threat snapped Ray out of his young man's bravado. Having his trip and his credit record ruined was one thing. Getting fried, or killed, was another. He recited the numbers. After reciting them again, he looked straight at the leader. "And now what?" This sparked an argument literally over his head, as he was dragged to his knees. Queasy after the electric shocks, he stayed there. Again, the suited man seemed to get the worst of it. It seemed to be settled when the stocky shortest gunman ended a flood of pidgin by yelling the clearest words Ray could determine so far, "Him blong yufela – yumassup!" Peering up, Ray saw the boss nod. More bickering followed, punctuated by the boss looking at his watch, finally pointing at each man and issuing commands. What happened next was predictable: a gun against Ray's neck, him being hauled to his feet, glancing back at the leader, who was ignoring him but perusing his identification again. The last thing he saw in that room was one of the gunmen going through the rest of his messenger bag. Then it was the cinderblock corridor, the office doors, yet another door, solid this time, and another room, with no lights on. Hustled through again, the gun left his nape. "Stay still," the suited man said. Ray's wrists were lifted, and only one side of the cuffs was undone. Then he was pitched forwards, to hit not the floor, but a low frame that whacked his shins in the dark. As he yelped in new pain, the door behind him slammed. "Ow, ow, ow," he whispered, standing still. Reaching down to feel, he found he had hit his legs against a welded iron bedframe; a small bed, a single. There was what felt like a foam-rubber mattress on it, beneath a few sheets. He sat down, clutching one aching leg, and let his eyes adjust to the room. It seemed to be large, with a big shadowy closet at one end. When Ray's heart stopped hammering enough for him to think again, he tried to be rational. All right. They want me alive for something. I guess to see if I told them the right PIN numbers. I am kidnapped, in a foreign country, my passport and tickets are taken, and these guys make the crew at your friendly neighborhood leather-bar look like a bunch of teddy bears. Thinking about that brought to mind what was buried in his backpack, the gay papers and travel guides. If any of the crew could read English, his luggage, in essence, outed him. Cradling his shin, he wondered what anyone would say. Or do. It might be one less reason for them to leave him alive. Read
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