End of the Ocean Read online

  The deal he was involved with must still go through but now he would have no help, and there was no guarantee whoever manned the x-ray station would be a friend on the payroll. He would have to speak with Ngyn about this, he knew people he could trust. Wayne was on his own if he got caught, but he knew they needed him.

  A corrupt police force needed a middleman they could trust to facilitate transactions.

  Wayne, sitting on his motorbike, shaking water from his head, wiped mist from his face as a motorbike passed him. It carried two passengers stuffed beneath one oversized raincoat, both of their heads crammed through the neck hole, followed by a flatbed truck, chugging, slowly, in low gear, with a load of dirt in back and a crew of workers sitting on top of it, getting soaked.

  Two wet workers waved at Wayne and Wayne returned their wave. The Indonesians were a pleasant bunch. The Balinese and the Javanese; the ones he befriended and did business with. Even the strangers would stop to help you. That was why he loved Bali, and once he’d made the right connections he became the man to know. Knowing was what he did best: people and dates and locations; more important, he knew discreet ways to disburse cash. As far as the world of drug trafficking was concerned, Wayne Tender was important. At least in Asia. He kept the wheels greased and everything ran smoothly. A package got through and everyone got paid that had to be paid.

  His phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and said, “Hello.”

  “Halo.”

  “Who’s this?”

  She told him her name. She worked for Grand Nikko Bali. A package had arrived.

  “Message from manager say call you at once if package arrive, Mister Tender.”

  “That’s fine,” Wayne said. “I’m on my way.”

  He hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He was going to have to stall people and they were not going to like it. A stalled deal would make people nervous and cost someone money. But what choice did he have, and how long could he stall? Couple of days maybe, he’d see what he could do. He could stall the deal or risk everything, but at that moment he did not know if everything was worth the risk.

  Wayne walked to the edge of the overhang and stuck his head out and studied the sky. This was the rainy season, it was hard to say how long it would rain. It might last an hour or it might rain five.

  He walked back to the motorbike and, lifting the seat, removed a raincoat from the compartment underneath it and left the overhang, riding in hot rain, steam coming off the pavement in front of him once the sun returned. He spun his head around to make sure no one followed him but it was hard to say; the streets were crowded with people who wore raincoats and everyone looked the same.

  Wayne sat at a stop sign with a small group of motorbikes, waiting as a large bus passed in front of them, slowly, shooting jets of hot smoke in the steamed air. Then, after riding with the small crowd for a mile or two, he turned right and followed that road to the hotel, parked his motorbike and went inside, stopping to collect his package from the front desk. He went to his room and locked the door, removing a Bintang from the fridge, walking to the balcony that overlooked the dirt brown alley, opening his beer. He wondered why he didn’t rent a room somewhere else with a much better view.

  He picked up his phone and sent a text. Looked at his watch and waited. Saw no one watching from above him and no one watching from below. There was nothing around him but concrete and dust and the ocean in the distance. It did not look blue but gray, like hammered gunmetal. Soft and cool and not without beauty, but there was a lot of ugliness that stood between them.

  ***

  Djoko Koplak, sitting at Fly Café, smoking, drinking coffee, used their wifi to send messages from the throwaway sim card in his phone. Before a shipment arrived he was rarely nervous, though a man who believed in his own destiny should still be cautious. He did not smuggle anything himself, those days were behind him. He liked to use horses, when he could find them, but in his business they were hard to find. Sometimes people got caught, and sometimes, despite the best precautions, things went wrong. He’d seen it happen. He’d watched a horse named Paul Stucky Ashley go down right in front of him at Ngurah Rai Airport. Paul was a surfer from Australia who he’d met on holiday and he was caught on his first attempt.

  Djoko went to pick him up but Paul never made it through immigration.

  A few hours later, Ngurah Rai security took him out in handcuffs. He had been at Kerobokan ever since, and like so many other prisoners, it was only a matter of time until they killed him.

  Djoko sat tall and stretched his back and finished his coffee. It poured rain outside and the longer he sat inside the less he wanted to go out in it. He nodded for the waiter and ordered another coffee, told him to throw in a few of those donuts.

  He checked his phone again. The plane was on time, and the next hour was crucial. Would his horse make it through the airport? There was a lot of money riding on that flight.

  Djoko sent a message to Ngyn. They had a meeting and Djoko wanted to remind him. Not that he’d forget; Djoko just wanted to be thorough. When it came to business he always was.

  His waiter brought him a coffee and three small donuts on a warm saucer.

  “Terima kasih.”

  The waiter nodded.

  Djoko worried about his horse. He worried about all of them. He had three horses in his stable. He used different horses for different jobs and all had proven themselves trustworthy. Today they’d be bringing in a kilo of methamphetamine hidden in a surfboard. The horse he was using was particularly skilled, but Djoko was still concerned. The last thing Djoko wanted to do was replace Grady, especially when he needed him for the upcoming job with the Australian—who Djoko had found through Ngyn.

  Wayne Tender smart, Ngyn told him. This guy know everyone.

  A month later they horsed in a kilo and a half of marijuana, and while it was successful, it was not worth the risk they took, not when the penalties were the same compared to the money they could make if they horsed in methamphetamine.

  More profit/same risk: life in prison or death by firing squad, and most men would tell you they did not know which was worse, but some men did not have it much better either way. Sometimes prison or death was better than what they already had. Ten years of stomping through rice paddies or one walk through an airport. Some chose the airport, but Djoko knew it took a special breed of people and most people did not have what it took even if they thought they did. He’d seen horses change their mind the day after they agreed to do the job and he’d seen them change their minds the day before they were set to leave. Once, a horse changed his mind at the airport and Djoko had to run himself, but that was the only time that happened. After that, he was cautious; he always used men he could trust.

  What he did not do was use women; this was a rule the old man instilled in him. Women do not trust, he’d say. Get you caught. From what he’d seen it was true. Women did get caught, not that men didn’t, but they seemed to carry themselves with more confidence, or perhaps it was arrogance. Either way, you needed some of whatever it was they had, but not too much, just enough self-assurance to get the job done.

  It was not a life for everyone, but for some it was an easy choice.

  Nygn Suterma left his village in the rain and rode toward Ubud. He’d had a wonderful morning with his children. His wife would be home soon. She would work in the garden and start on dinner after that. It would be a nice night with his family and he looked forward to it. Evenings were his favorite time. A meal. A drink. Perhaps a book while the children played and his wife watched TV.

  He took Jl. Hanoman to the short cut by the soccer park and turned right on Monkey Forrest Road. After taking that to the main road, he turned left and rode for several kilometers, passing warungs and spas and nice restaurants. Then he passed an IndoMart and the Bintang before he came to Fly Café, where he parked his motorbike and went inside.

  Djoko sat at a tall square
table to the right and nodded when Ngyn approached.

  Sitting together, they drank coffee and were friendly to each other. They talked about the package—specifically, its arrival. When Grady made it through the airport he would send a text message; then he’d take a taxi to Sanur.

  If he did not send a text there was a problem.

  Djoko sipped coffee. He was confident, like always. And even if he wasn’t, Ngyn would never know because Djoko hid his insecurities well.

  They would meet at the Tandjung Sari Hotel for the exchange. That was how they’d always done it, though sometimes they switched hotels. Last time it was the Legian Beach Hotel, and The Amala in Seminyak the time before that.

  His phone lay on the table and they watched it. Ngyn looked at his watch again and asked Djoko what time the plane would land and he told him it already had.

  Because he would not eat for two days before a run, Grady had cramps in his stomach as he walked off the plane, something that always happened, but he ignored them and thought about the dinner he would have at Naughty Nuri’s Warung. He would drink ten cold beers and eat a rack of ribs. They were the best ribs in Indonesia, and he’d eaten enough to make a fair comparison.

  It was hot inside Ngurah Rai International Airport and Grady was sweating. Breathe, he thought. Breathe. So he did. One, deep, controlled breath after another. He walked at a quick pace like a man in a hurry, the same way he would have walked through the airport if he had not been horsing. He had stone-hard confidence. He’d never had a problem before and he would not have one now. Everything would run smoothly. Nothing would come between him and the ribs and those ten cold beers. This was an easy ten thousand dollars and it was more money than he could make doing anything else.

  He made four or five runs a year and lived very well.

  Grady, standing in one of many long lines with his passport in hand, waited to talk to a Customs official. The lines moved slowly. It was always like this. Everyone hurried to make it through. When it was his turn, he gave the man his passport, answered two questions and collected it without admiring the stamp.

  “Next please,” the official said, pointing to the woman who’d been in line behind him.

  Grady, picking up his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder, walked toward the x-ray machine to scan his bag, then onto the baggage claim to collect his surfboard.

  Djoko, on his third cup of coffee, drinking slowly, watched his phone on the table vibrate. They both looked at it. Djoko, picking it up, unlocked the phone and smiled.

  Grady was in the back of a taxi, on his way to Sanur.

  Both men shook hands and finished their coffee, and although they were content, they were not out of the woods. They still had a lot of work to do. Djoko would meet Grady, pay him, and pick up the methamphetamine. He would then take the methamphetamine back to Ngyn, who would meet Wayne Tender and exchange it for cash.

  Ngyn would then take the cash he got from Wayne back to Djoko, after first removing his agreed-upon percentage, and Djoko would send it through Fed Ex to an undisclosed locale.

  Ngyn, standing, pushing in his tall chair, bowed to Djoko, who returned his bow. He told Ngyn he would text him soon. After he met Grady. They could meet tonight or tomorrow. They would figure something out.

  Ngyn left the café and rode to the factory where he worked and parked his motorbike and went inside. It would be a long day, but at least he would make some money. Perhaps he would tell his wife not to cook and take his family to Pizza Bagus. That was their favorite restaurant but they did not eat there often, only on special occasions. To Ngyn, a big paycheck from a business transaction was always something special.

  As Djoko waved at the waitress to bring his check, his phone rang. It was Tui: a woman he would sometimes see, though lately he’d begun to realize she might be crazy. In truth, perhaps he had always known, which meant he knew better than to answer her call, but he did anyway.

  “Halo.”

  “Halo,” she said.

  “How you been, Tui?”

  “Fine. Where you at?”

  Djoko winced. She was getting nosey and he didn’t like it. He did not want to lie but he did not want to tell the truth either so he changed the subject.

  “Gotta meet a friend. You in Ubud?”

  “Yes, you?”

  He lied and said he was in Canggu, that he had to go, but then she asked him why he was in Canggu.

  “Lunch,” he said, getting frustrated. “With a friend.”

  He knew it was coming.

  “Who friend?”

  “A friend,” he said. “Don’t ask again, just friend. No worry, Tui.”

  She didn’t like that and he didn’t care, the relationship was over and they both knew it—at least he did, and if she didn’t she should have. There was no one to blame but her; she’d done all of this herself. By being bitchy and controlling and by asking too many questions.

  After paying his bill and tipping his waitress fifty thousand rupiah, a generous amount, he listened to Tui go on and on about a movie she had watched about a woman who was psycho.

  “Her husband cheat on her so she fake her own death,” Tui said. “She blame him for her murder to send him prison but then she change her mind.”

  “Sounds like the bitch was crazy.”

  Tui laughed and said, “She smart, that for sure. That also what I would do.”

  She asked him again what he was doing in Canggu and he hung up the phone. That was the last time he would talk to Tui, and that was one more reason to end it. She watched movies about women who were crazy but she didn’t think they were.

  When she called him back he ignored her; he’d wasted enough time on her already.

  Walking to his bike he got a text message, and even though he was sure it was from Tui, he checked it anyway. It was Grady. He’d sent a picture of his hotel room with a surfboard on the bed.

  Slipping his phone in one pocket, removing his key from the other, he sat on his motorcycle with great relief. He left Fly Café on his Harley Davidson and rode toward the Tandjung Sari Hotel. It was late afternoon and there were thousands of motorbikes on the road beside him but he did not see another hog. He had not seen one in five days. Most Indonesians could not afford a fine Harley Davidson motorcycle but Djoko owned two. He owned a sport bike and two four wheelers as well. He kept an old Jeep that he drove to the beach and a new BMW in his garage.

  But he preferred his Harley.

  It told the world who he was.

  Djoko Koplak big man, it said. Live in nice house, drive nice car.

  Riding hard in third gear, engine screaming up and down hills, shirtless and lean muscled and tan from the sun, his long hair blew freely as he crested a knoll, letting off the gas, forcing hot air through the side pipes. Then, leaning into a corner, jamming the throttle, pulling out of the turn, his back tire broke loose and caught traction.

  He came to a dump truck full of hot workers and blasted by them on a straight stretch. Some were yelling with their fists up, but every man wished they’d been him.

  Djoko let off the throttle and squeezed the clutch and shifted gears. His bike was screaming and he felt alive when he went that fast. He wished he had an airplane; he’d thought about buying one. He could buy a rice field and level it flat and use it as a runway. He could use his plane on flights to Java. Learn to fly himself. But that would draw attention. Even though he could afford it, he could not let anyone know he could. Not that they didn’t know already. But know was too strong a word, most just suspected, and there was a big difference between the two. Buying an airplane was too big a risk. They catch you he told himself, because he had to talk himself out of it, though he wanted one badly. He’d convinced himself of all the reasons.

  Djoko came to the end of the road and merged with a wider road that had more traffic. Ubud was in the foothills of the Gianyar regency, amongst the precipitous ravines and
the rice fields. It was the arts and culture center of Bali with a population of thirty-thousand. It was always crowded; it was a great place for a meeting like the one he had with Ngyn.

  He pinned the throttle on the straight stretches when they came and let off so the pipes would echo through the sharp hills. He enjoyed his ride to Sanur. When he got to the hotel he found Grady waiting, sitting at a restaurant with two plates of food.

  “Grady, how you doing, man? You always one hungry son of a bitch.”

  Grady, chewing, agreeing, lifting his finger to give pause, swallowing, taking a drink of beer to wash it all down, said, “Fucking perfect is how I’m doing.”

  Djoko said. “You have good trip, yeah?”

  Grady, shaking his head, grunted affirmatively and took a bite of soft shell crab. After he finished gnawing, he said it was bagus.

  “Yeah, bagus bagus. You have no problem?”

  He shook his head. “No problems.”

  “Bagus.” Djoko pointed to Grady’s plate. “What you eat? Crab, yes?”

  Grady said it was and took a bite of spring roll. This was just a warm up. Another couple of hours he’d be eating Nauri’s ribs.

  Djoko, holding a rolled newspaper in his hand, set it on the table and let it unroll.

  There were ten thousand dollars inside its pages: US money.

  “You do good job,” Djoko said. “Do not spend it all at once.”

  Grady said he wouldn’t as he picked up the plate that held his mango papaya salad. When he did, Djoko set his hand on a flat plastic key card that had been under the plate. He slid his hand back and pulled the card discreetly off the table.

  “See you soon,” Grady said, and, opening his phone, removing his sim card, handed it to Djoko so he could destroy it.

  “Very soon, yeah,” Djoko said. “Get new sim card and call tomorrow.”

  Grady said he would.

  Djoko, bowing casually, leaving the table, walked to the hallway and took the elevator to Grady’s room. Once inside, he removed the surfboard and left the key on the bed. He carried the board down the hall, stepped into the elevator and rode to the ground floor, walked to his motorcycle and attached the surfboard to the custom-made holder on the side.