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  BALI BULE HUNTER

  N O T I C E

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright @ Michael Powers 2015

  BALI BULE HUNTER

  Chapter 1

  Twenty hours after leaving Los Angeles, Greg was on the last leg of his trip to Ngurah Rai Airport on Bali. Using a big chunk of his uncle’s birthday gift, Greg flew first-class because it was the only seat left. He read and napped during the first half of the seven-hour flight from Tokyo to Bali. After the mid-flight meal, Greg excused himself to use the restroom.

  Apologizing to the attractive forty-something Asian woman he brushed by as he returned to his window seat, he figured it was time to introduce himself. “I’m Greg, and this is my first trip to Indonesia. Thought I’d take a crash history course during the flight, so I bought a book about Bali in LA.”

  A knowing smile formed as she nodded. Tall, fair-skinned, blond, and blue-eyed, Greg was the kind of man most Indonesian women dreamed of meeting. “Nice to meet you, Greg. I’m Liana. I see the author is from Yale University, and has traveled extensively throughout Indonesia. Her book should be an excellent introduction to my country.”

  “Do you live on Bali?” Greg asked.

  “It’s my home,” she nodded. “We don’t get many American visitors.”

  “That surprises me,” Greg replied earnestly. “From what I’ve read, Bali is a paradise. Much like Hawaii, but everything is cheaper.”

  “And much further from LA,” Liana added, amused by the simple way Greg had characterized an ancient culture of more than four million people. “The thirty-hour flight from LA to Bali involves two plane changes. Most Americans don’t want to spend so much of their vacation in transit.”

  “Good point,” Greg agreed. “I wonder why all the big resorts on Bali don’t badger the airlines to provide more direct flights from the States?”

  “They’re able to fill all their rooms with Japanese, Chinese, European, and Australian tourists,” Liana explained. “The only Americans who seem to be interested in my country are those who work for your government, or the big oil and mining companies.”

  “I didn’t realize that,” Greg admitted.

  Wanting to learn more about Greg, Liana asked, “Is your visit for business or pleasure?”

  He hesitated, uncertain how to answer. “Not really. I’m looking for my uncle,” he confided. “He flew to Bali to meet someone and was supposed to be back in LA a week ago. When he didn’t show for my thirtieth birthday party, I tried calling and e-mailing him, but he didn’t answer. I called his hotel on Bali, and they told me he checked out.”

  Liana’s pained expression was more than Greg expected from someone he barely knew. “May I ask which hotel?”

  “The Four Seasons on Nusa Dua.”

  “One of Bali’s finest,” Liana murmured. “Was he with a group?”

  “Alone,” Greg replied. Sensing he could trust Liana, he revealed a bit more. “My uncle met a young man on-line and flew to Bali to meet him in person. What worries me is that the hotel told me Uncle Ted checked out, but left his luggage in his room. That doesn’t sound like him. Uncle Ted is rich, but not careless, or forgetful.”

  “If he’s still on Bali, it shouldn’t be too hard to find him,” Liana assured Greg. “There may be millions of people on the island, but it’s still a very small place. If you ask only six people at random what’s happening, you’ll know every piece of gossip in less than an hour!”

  Greg laughed appreciatively. “I’ve often thought the same thing about San Diego, my hometown. My Indonesian roommate wants me to ask Bali police for help, but I’m skeptical.”

  Liana smiled sympathetically. “This would no doubt be a low priority for the local police, unless your uncle is the American ambassador.”

  Greg smiled. “That’s what I figured.”

  “You have an Indonesian roommate?” Liana commented. “You also met on-line?”

  Greg knew what she was thinking, but she was wrong. They were only roommates. “We both studied computer science at UCLA. He does research for a telecomm giant and I teach high school in San Diego.”

  “Which hotel will you be staying at, Greg?”

  “The Four Seasons.”

  Liana’s surprised expression worried Greg. “Very expensive for a teacher, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Greg admitted. “That’s where my uncle was staying, so I got a room there, too. Never even asked the price. Any idea how much the rooms are?”

  “I believe rooms start at six hundred dollars a night,” Liana replied, wincing slightly.

  “Yikes!” Greg muttered. “I can’t afford that. Any suggestions?”

  “You might try the Kuta Sands. It’s modern, about a hundred dollars a night, directly across from the most popular beach, and there are many places to shop and eat within walking distance. They can even arrange a car and driver for you at the front desk.”

  “That’s very helpful,” Greg thanked her. “You aren’t a travel agent by any chance, are you?”

  Liana shook her head. “I have an art gallery in Ubud, a half hour north of Denpasar, the largest city on Bali.”

  “You speak perfect English,” Greg complimented her. “Did you study in the States?”

  “I attended a few classes at Stanford,” Liana explained, “but mostly I’ve picked up pronunciation from some American ex-patriates on Bali.”

  “They must all be English professors, Liana. Your grammar is better than most of my students!”

  Liana nodded slightly and smiled. “Indonesians have a gift for language, born of necessity. Bahasa is our official language, but there are hundreds of widely spoken dialects, as different as French from Spanish.”

  When the pilot interrupted their chat with landing instructions a few hours later, Greg was sorry the flight was coming to an end. The information Liana shared with Greg was ten times more useful than the book he bought at LAX. Minutes later the jet rolled to a stop several hundred feet short of the terminal. Passengers deplaned, then boarded a bus. After a fifteen-minute wait, the bus took them to the terminal. “I could have walked from the plane to the terminal faster,” Greg told Liana in a low voice.

  “I’m sure you could,” Liana smiled patiently, “but you are young and strong. Many older passengers with carry-on bags would struggle in our heat. Labor is cheap and abundant in my country, so the driver is happy to provide a useful service to arriving passengers.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Greg grinned sheepishly. “Say, what was that incredible aroma when we stepped off the plane?”

  Liana laughed. “A mixture of spices and flowers. Many visitors claim the smell is overpowering, but I no longer notice it. Perhaps you recall part of Indonesia was once known as the Spice Islands?”

  “Yes, and Captain Cook experienced the same sensation when his plane landed four hundred years ago,” Greg teased.

  “Precisely,” Liana smiled, appreciating the handsome American teacher’s humor.

  An unnecessary bus ride, a powerful aroma, and an extremely helpful Indonesian woman were Greg’s first impressions of Bali. He wondered how many other unusual sights, sounds, and smells awaited him in paradise. When the bus reached the terminal, Greg followed the other passengers through a maze of dimly lit passages, arriving at a large open area marked Customs.
After showing his passport, Greg joined other passengers at the luggage carousel. The more experienced travelers snatched their bags before valets could demand a ransom for toting them a couple feet to the nearest Customs Officer. When Greg spotted his suitcase, he grabbed it seconds ahead of a valet, who treated Greg to his first Bahasa curse.

  As he rejoined Liana, Greg extended his hand. “This is where we part company. You go through the short line for residents while I wait in one of those long lines for visitors.”

  Liana shook Greg’s hand, gave him her business card, then invited him to stop by her gallery if he had time. She wished him well in his search, then they joined their respective lines. A few moments later, a Customs officer tapped Greg on the shoulder, signaling him to follow. Inside a small office, the officer closed the door, and began searching Greg’s suitcase and backpack.

  “Special search take many long time,” the officer warned without looking at Greg. “Small gift make more quicker.”

  Greg understood he was being asked for a bribe. Silently scolding himself for buying Indonesian rupiahs worth a thousand dollars from a currency broker in Tokyo, he wished he had waited until clearing Customs on Bali. As he reached for his wallet, he considered the possibility he was being secretly videotaped. Since bribing a Customs officer was probably a crime, the penalty might be more severe than not paying the bribe. With nothing to hide, he decided to let the officer search as long as he wanted. A second officer joined them, watching quietly.

  The first officer continued searching Greg’s backpack. “Many visitor bring drug to Bali.” As proof, he opened a desk drawer filled with an assortment of bottles, boxes, and plastic bags. “Big trouble if I say these thing in your bag. Small gift make trouble go away.”

  Greg was torn, wanting to bribe the officer, but afraid it was a trap. Instead, he adopted a confused expression. “I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”

  “Making small gift. Go front line,” the officer smiled.

  “Small gift?” Greg repeated, still appearing confused.

  The officers glanced at each other. At this point in the shakedown, if the target was uncooperative, they usually seized his wallet, helping themselves to all his cash. As the second officer began searching Greg’s pockets, there was a knock on the door.

  The second officer opened the door and Greg saw Liana. She muttered something in Bahasa, and the officer stepped outside. Seconds later he returned, whispered something to the other officer and they hurriedly packed Greg’s luggage, then escorted him to the front of the line. His passport was stamped and they waived him through, apologizing profusely for the delay.

  “Please forgive,” the senior Customs officer grinned, proudly displaying teeth that would make a seasoned dentist cringe. “Small mistake. No harm, yes? Okie dokie. Have the pleasant stay.”

  As they left the terminal together, Greg asked what magic words Liana had used to such great effect.

  “I told them you are the son of a U.S. senator, here on holiday. Detaining you would cause an international incident and cost them their jobs,” she explained, with just a hint of a smile. “I apologize for their behavior. My country can’t afford to pay civil servants much, so we look the other way while they supplement their income. I’m truly sorry.”

  Still puzzled, Greg asked, “How did you know what they were up to?”

  Liana smiled grimly. “I saw them studying all the arriving passengers, and you were their favorite. They spotted your Rolex, designer sunglasses, and expensive luggage. Plus you’re traveling alone, so no complications or witnesses.”

  Greg scanned himself. “All gifts from my uncle or things I borrowed from him. Back home, they were never a problem. I’d better get rid of some of these things before I go wandering the streets of Bali alone.”

  “Good idea,” Liana agreed. “Perhaps you can pick up a cheaper watch. I also suggest wearing a shirt with a button or zip front pocket. Much harder for pickpockets to steal from you. Maybe carry one credit card, ID, and small bills when you leave your hotel. The rest you can keep in the room safe.”

  “You’re a storehouse of tourist advice!” Greg exclaimed. “The airlines ought to tape all this and play it before landing.”

  When they reached the taxis, Liana told a driver to take her friend to the Kuta Sands Hotel. Greg thanked her several times, wondering if their paths would cross again.

  The clerk at Kuta Sands Hotel found Greg a corner room with both an ocean and pool view for ninety dollars a night, then summoned a porter. Greg followed the porter through the air-conditioned lobby to the elevator, up two floors, and into a spacious, but cheaply furnished room. It reminded him of an apartment struggling college students might rent. There were cloth curtains instead of doors on the closets and bathroom. The entertainment center was a stack of cement bricks and wood slabs. Expecting to see milk carton chairs and plastic tables, Greg found polished wicker instead. After he tipped the porter, Greg closed the door, removed the laptop from his suitcase, and set it up on a table facing the ocean.

  Checking e-mail first, Greg was disappointed his uncle still hadn’t opened any recent messages. For the hundredth time that week, Greg was grateful his uncle had trusted him to set up his computer, e-mail, and bank accounts. It would making finding him so much easier. When he spotted an e-mail from Ted’s bank, Greg opened it, hoping it would contain some clue about Ted’s location. It was an offer for a new security program to protect wealthy customers from extortion by kidnappers or terrorists. Since it was free and the process was relatively simple, Greg enrolled himself and his uncle.

  Next, Greg created a fake profile similar to the one he made for his uncle several months earlier. To make it realistic, he copied several pictures of a distinguished, silver-haired man in his sixties from a travel website for seniors. He described himself as a ‘lonely, retired executive seeking cute Bali boy to share all my time, money. and affection.’ After studying the profile of the young man named Donny his uncle had befriended, Greg completed the fake profile in such a way that he and Donny would be a perfect match.

  “That should get his attention,” Greg muttered, hoping to lure his uncle’s friend to him. According to his roommate, Jaya, young Balinese guys spent several hours each day surfing for profiles like the one Greg created. If his uncle’s friend didn’t respond to the fake profile in the next forty-eight hours, Greg would tease him with a message, but preferred Donny make the first move.

  Satisfied he had done all he could for the moment, Greg showered, then took a nap.

  Chapter 2

  The link from Jaya to locate gay clubs on Bali was helpful, even though some of the information was outdated. Using a more current website, Greg found eight clubs for gays, although seven claimed to cater to a mixed crowd. Greg wrote down the name, address, and hours of each club, deciding to try Patar first since it seemed to be where most gays on Bali started a night out on the town.

  It was a short taxi ride from Kuta Sands to Patar. Greg arrived a few minutes before eleven, just in time for the first drag show. Rainbow flags on either side of the entrance made the club easy to spot. Patar billed itself as Bali’s first and only real gay bar. Greg muttered a quick prayer his uncle would be sitting right inside the front door, ending the search. Feeling slightly nauseous reminded Greg of high school. Not exactly sure why, he realized his first visit to a gay bar outside the U.S. made him very nervous.

  High school hadn’t been the best time in Greg’s life. Pale and skinny, he was a self-diagnosed geek. He loved computers, math, chess, and was a member of the debate team. Wandering the hallways with two thousand other students each day gave him stomach cramps. He wasn’t picked on so much as he was ignored. Telling Uncle Ted how he felt the summer he turned eighteen changed his life. Ted promptly hired a personal trainer who transformed Greg into a toned, self-confident, well-groomed adult. A growth spurt that summer added four inches to Greg’s height. When he showed up at UCLA that fall, he was not ignored. He appreciated
the flattering stares from both genders, losing his virginity to a graduating senior named Patrick the day before Thanksgiving. Still, stressful situations brought back the same stomach cramps he felt as a high school geek.

  Glancing up at the rainbow flags flanking Patar’s entry, Greg wished Jaya was with him. Swamped at work, Jaya’s boss wouldn’t approve vacation time. Even though Jaya thought Greg’s Bali trip was a waste of time and money, he’d been helpful preparing Greg for the long journey. He assured Greg the people on Bali were friendly and English was widely spoken, so there’d be no problem making himself understood.

  A security guard outside Patar waved a handheld metal detector up and down Greg’s torso. A second guard nudged his dog to sniff Greg for explosives. Finding nothing suspicious, they waved Greg into the bar, wishing him a good evening. Not sure whether he should be alarmed or relieved, Greg knew security on Bali was tightened after terrorist attacks on popular tourist bars and cafes in 2002, and again in 2005.

  As he entered Patar, Greg was grateful for the darkness, hoping no one would notice him. That hope died quickly as a short young brown man, clad only in dark tank top, matching shorts and flip flops, brushed dangerously close and whispered into his ear, “Halo handsome! Where ya been all my life?”

  “I’m waiting for a friend,” Greg blurted. “An older man with silver hair.”

  “Change your mind, let me know, ok?” the young man winked, then floated away.

  All attention was focused on a stage where a drag queen was lip-syncing a Donna Summer song. The crowd alternately laughed and applauded. Greg wandered among the tables, searching for Ted’s familiar smile, silver hair, and trim torso. Then he scanned the young brown faces for his uncle’s friend, Donny. Spotting neither Ted nor Donny on his first pass through Patar, Greg made a second pass. He noticed several winks and smiles directed his way. He wished he could page Ted or Donny, then wait outside for them, but he didn’t want to draw that much attention.