Free Salty by Mark Haskell Smith

her.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œI’ve never seen such white skin before.”
    Sheila stopped washing and instinctively covered herself for a moment, then realized there was nothing she could do about it and dropped her hands to her side. She watched Somporn’s eyes as they studied her breasts. They were wide in amazement, yet focused in discovering ever nuance and detail. Even her dermatologist didn’t look at her this intently.
    â€œThis is your natural skin?”
    She nodded.
    â€œWhy did you color yourself brown?”
    Sheila shrugged.
    â€œIt’s called a healthy tan.”
    Somporn shook his head in dismay.
    â€œBut your white skin … it’s so beautiful.”
    Somporn reached a hand out to touch her breast. Sheila stepped back against the wall.
    â€œPlease, Captain. I’m trying to wash.”
    Somporn caught himself.
    â€œI apologize.”
    He walked back to his spot on the floor and sat down. He refilled his whiskey and lit another cigarette. Sheila watched him. She could sense that he was suddenly troubled by something.
    â€œWhere are you from?”
    â€œThe United States.”
    â€œBut there are black people, brown people, in your country. Not everybody is white like you.”
    Sheila nodded.
    â€œMy mother was from Denmark. My father is Norwegian.”
    Somporn considered that for a moment as the water in the shower slowed to a trickle and stopped. Sheila grabbed a towel—a nice one, pilfered from a four-star hotel—and began to dry herself. Somporn was watching her, entranced, and yet she could tell that his thoughts were elsewhere. Finally he spoke.
    â€œScandinavia.”
    He said it like it was a magical word.

Ten
    Turk’s head was spinning. His nerves were jangly, his hands quivering in a kind of speedy tweaker palsy, and he had a splitting headache. Maybe it was all that iced tea he’d guzzled. Turk got cottonmouth when he was nervous, and he must’ve sucked down a gallon of the stuff. He should’ve stuck to beer, but somehow that didn’t seem like the right thing to do as he talked on the phone with Heidegger and then with the guy from the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok. If people saw him drinking beer they might not think he was taking this kidnapping seriously.
    He was taking it seriously, very, but he didn’t know what to do, he was out of his league. He didn’t have the skill set or the temperament for dealing with a crisis like this. He was a rock star, for fuck’s sake. He had people who handled things for him. Your flight gets delayed, you call the tour manager or Marybeth. They call someone or something, whatever it is they do, and you’re on another flight. If there’s a problem with that flight, they charter you a fucking plane. It’s all taken care of. You just have to sit in the executive lounge at the airport, watch ESPN, and drink cranberry juice. If the gigantic Mack truck pulling your gear gets stuck in a snowstorm whileyou’re on tour, nobody calls you and says that your equipment won’t make the gig; somehow equipment arrives and is set up, ready for you to rock. You don’t even hear about it until days later, when it’s become a funny anecdote about how the stranded crew were kept entertained by a couple of truck stop whores; they even made an amateur porn video about it. That’s why you keep an army of managers, tour managers, booking agents, lawyers, trainers, nutritionists, travel agents, and roadies on the payroll. The real world starts to burst your bubble or bum your party head and, snap, someone’s there to deal with it. It’s all taken care of; it’s handled. That’s how rock stars roll.
    Turk lay down on the bed in his hotel room. He kicked his flip-flops off and adjusted the pillows. He tried to relax, taking a deep breath of air in through his nostrils and letting it whistle out through his lips; he tried to let his thoughts go.