Salty by Mark Haskell Smith

approach he hoped his supervisor might later commend him for.
    â€œI’m sorry. But if you try to contact them or give them money in any way, you’ll be arrested and prosecuted under provisions of the Patriot Act.”
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding.”
    â€œLike it or not, Mr. Henry, the United States is at war. We take the war against terrorism very, very seriously.”
    Turk looked at Ben for a long beat, and then used an extended middle finger to push his sunglasses back up his nose so they covered his eyes.
    â€¦
    When they got back to the hotel Turk stormed off to his room without saying a word to the ICE asshole, the Thai policeman, or the hotel manager. As far as he was concerned they could all go fuck themselves, or each other, or their mothers. He didn’t care.
    Turk entered his cabin and went right to the minibar. He cracked open a Singha and took a nice long drink. The cold beer burbled down his throat like the clear mountain brook they always showed in those stupid ads. Sure, it was refreshing, clear, and cooling, but those ads annoyed Turk. You couldn’t drink water from some mountain stream. It’d have raccoon shit in it, or acid rain, or toxic runoff. Mountain streams were teeming with parasites, mercury, DDT, all kinds of stuff that would kill you. But beer refreshed and relaxed. Beer was better than stream water any day. Turk burped. Then he picked up the phone and called his manager.
    Heidegger’s assistant, Marybeth, picked up the phone and immediately bombarded Turk with questions. Was he okay? How was he doing? Did he think Sheila would be all right? Was there anything she could do for him? Anything? Her voice was warm and honey-coated, filled with empathyand concern. Turk tried to remember if he’d ever fucked her. It seemed to him he had. He must’ve. Right?
    But he didn’t have time to chat, and told her to connect him to Jon right away. Turk heard a beep, a blast of new wave rock, and then Heidegger’s voice came on the line.
    â€œHow’s it going? Did you talk to the authorities?”
    â€œThey’re fucking useless.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œSome asshole from the government told me they’d arrest me if I tried to pay.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe said she’s been abducted by terrorists. It’s against the law to pay ransoms to terrorists.”
    â€œTerrorists?”
    â€œThat’s what he said.”
    â€œThat’s unbelievable. Can they really do that?”
    â€œWhat the fuck do I know about it? He seemed to think they could. But then he told me to sit tight and he’d try and deal with it on the QT.”
    The line was silent for a moment. Finally Heidegger spoke.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œListen, Turk. I don’t like this. You tell that government anus that if they arrest you for trying to save your beloved wife they’ll have every media outlet in the known fucking universe doing a story on how they’re a bunch of soulless bureaucrat cocksuckers. Keeping things on the QT is the last fucking thing we’re gonna do. You get your money and save your wife. The embassy twat can go fuck himself.”
    Turk loved when his manager got angry. That was the great thing about having “people” and “handlers.” It was Heidegger’s job to be a raging asshole, whiny baby, righteous advocate, avenging angel, and whatever else his clients needed him to be. He could say the things Turk wanted to say without actually having to say them and come off sounding like a big fat jerk.
    â€œDid you get the money?”
    â€œYeah. Everything’s cool. Let me give you the address so you can pick it up.”
    Turk looked around the cabin.
    â€œWait. I need a pen.”
    â€œNo you don’t. It’s the Bank of Phuket on Phuket Road in Phuket Town. Just keep sayin’ Phuket and you’ll find