Salty by Mark Haskell Smith Page A

it.”
    â€œThanks, Jon.”
    â€œAfter you get her back we need to talk. I think I got you a record deal.”
    Turk brightened.
    â€œReally?”
    â€œSave the day. Then we’ll talk.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll call you later.”
    â€œOh, and Turk. Listen. Take a big suitcase. It’s a lotta fuckin’ money.”
    â€¦
    The transcript of Turk’s conversation with Jon Heidegger appeared as an e-mail on Ben’s Blackberry. He’d had the foresight to request that the intelligence station back inBangkok tap Turk’s hotel room phone line. Any calls the rock star made would be recorded and sent to him. Ben had to squint a little to read it, the type being so small, but he got the gist of it. Turk Henry was going to be a problem.

Twelve
    Sheila slipped out of her clothes, carefully folding them and putting them on the floor, and walked over to the makeshift shower. Captain Somporn had provided her with a new loofah, some expensive moisturizing soap, and a jar of all-natural coconut oil. It was like he’d turned this little corner of his hut into some kind of spa.
    â€œIs there anything else you need?”
    Sheila turned to look at him. He was sitting on the floor, his legs crossed in front of him, a cold bottle of beer in one hand, a smoldering cigarette in the other, watching her, like a patron in a cabaret waiting for the show to begin.
    â€œNo. This is fine.”
    â€œThe coconut oil is for your skin. It’s very good. Very healthy.”
    Sheila smiled and then stood under the hose and unhooked the clamp. Warmish water trickled out, and she began to soap her body, building up a thick, rich lather.
    The Captain’s attentions reminded her of the ad campaign she’d done for a French soap company. They had wanted her skin to be glowing, healthy, and blemish-free and had sent her to a series of experts who prescribed exotic scrubs,herbal wraps, mud baths, and moisturizing sessions. They’d even hired a nutritionist to prepare her meals and make sure she drank four liters of water every day. For two months all Sheila did was get treated like a prize pig before the state fair.
    The French soap company had spared no expense; it had hired a famous Dutch photographer, and the best, most creative makeup artist, a tomboyish British woman with a yogarific aura, had been employed to dust her skin with subtle orange-gold hues. They’d gone so far as to bring in Carlos Lemoyne, the world-famous eyelash specialist. He’d arrived with a whole team, shoved the makeup artist and photographer aside, and got to work. He spent three hours hand-painting each of her eyelashes so they became miniature works of art. Sheila loved them, because they made her green eyes pop out of the photo. Even though her breasts were fully exposed, people noticed her eyes; they couldn’t help it, they looked that good.
    That campaign should’ve made her an icon, the rare supermodel who’s forever attached to a hugely successful product, like Cheryl Tiegs and Olympus cameras or Tyra Banks and Victoria’s Secret. Sheila would’ve been set for life, but her daily habit of hoovering several grams of Peruvian marching powder had finally caught up with her. Her left nostril had sprung a leak, bright red blood gushing from it like a broken water main.
    It had taken about an hour, but she’d finally got it to slow to a trickle. The photographer and makeup artist had worked valiantly to control and conceal the constant ooze but they only got off a handful of shots before it became impossible to continue. As the makeup artist ran off to get more cotton gauze, and the photographer stomped off in a hail of unintelligible curses to smoke a joint, Sheila calmlychopped herself a couple of lines of blow and snorted them up her good nostril. What with all the drama going on, she needed a bump.
    When Carlos saw that, he had become so enraged that he physically attacked her,