by John Burdett
“At least have some sticky rice with it. Roll it into a ball like this.” She watches a little resentfully, having graduated in spice already. She copies me, however, dips her ball into the sauce, and munches merrily with no ill effects. “Delicious.” I see no advantage in pointing out there were no chili fragments at that end of the salad.
“We think he’s in Cambodia,” the FBI says. We are still doing Bright and Cheerful around each other, by the way, careful not to mention Lek.
“Who?”
“Kowlovski, the masked man. His isometric image was recorded entering Phnom Penh airport about a week ago. Meanwhile the LAPD has come up with a whole bunch of background data. It’s like looking at a fly caught in a web. That guy was in deep trouble.” She doesn’t really want to eat any of the snails but feels honor bound to give one a go. “How do you do this?”
“Suck.”
She does so, and after a moment of resistance the snail shoots out of its shell into her mouth. She starts to gag but masters herself manfully.
“Money?”
Covering her mouth and speaking through her fingers: “It all comes down to that. It’s the California Catch. To be marketable you got to be glamorous and to be glamorous you got to be hip, and to be hip you got to have dough, and to have dough you got to be marketable.”
“Cocaine?”
“Whatever’s in style. This guy is a cipher. He has the mind of a whore: Whatever you want me to do for money—just make sure I look sexy while I’m doing it. He owes dealers and loan sharks, he owes back payments on child support for an ex-wife and two kids in Kansas, and he owes lease payments on some SUV he never drives far because he can’t afford the gas. Threats pouring in. This is just stuff the guys on the ground over there picked up in one quick trawl through the porn industry. There are no secrets—it’s a very transparent business.”
“So why Cambodia? If he was paid as much as we think for the flick, he could have settled all his debts and resumed the lifestyle, gone back to the more humdrum kind of studding.”
A shrug from the FBI. “We don’t know. We only have one witness who saw him in the last couple weeks. It’s an old girlfriend who he keeps in touch with. She says she’s the only person in the world he’s ever had a relationship with that went below the skin. She thinks he’s a troubled soul, with everything repressed. That certainly fits the pattern for prostitutes, male and female.”
Kimberley rolls another ball of sticky rice and this time plunges it deep into the somtan salad, pressing it down to absorb more of the sauce, then takes a bite. I dare not get technical at this stage by explaining that the intense but transient suffering she is about to inflict upon herself has directly to do with the overstimulation of her second chakra, which of course is the prime mover in her passion for Lek.
“Did she say anything else?”
I have to wait for the answer because her mouth is on fire, she is hiccupping, a sweat has broken out on her forehead, and her face is heart-attack crimson. Cold water is the worst therapy, but she takes a gulp from the bottle in the ice bucket. Now she has to visit the bathroom. I munch on the somtan and pick off a couple of snails while I’m waiting for her to return. The chili in the somtan goes well with my cold Kloster beer. (The two streams come together in a riotous clash somewhere in the back of the throat, sending a delicious shock wave through the taste buds.) Now the FBI is marching back to the table, her face set.
“Yes. She said he came back from a trip somewhere overseas a couple weeks ago and was real quiet, then disappeared altogether. Usually he’s always ready with the latest friendly sound bite, normally a very personable guy in a Lycra kind of way. This time, though, he seemed depressed. She was surprised he had the depth to get depressed. I don’t think I need any more snails or somtan salad.”
“I think they’ll cook you a steak, if I ask them nicely.”
“I’m suddenly on a diet. How about I watch you eat, and I’ll munch on some nice bland sticky rice if I get hungry?”
“Okay. Did he seem to have money the last time she met him?”
“Yes, she said he made a point of paying off some back rent on his apartment in Inglewood, cleared the slate with a grocery store, and gave her a silk shirt and skirt. They asked her if it was Thai silk, and she said she didn’t know.”
Finally the braised duck has arrived in a pot. The FBI eyes it suspiciously, but when I assure her there are no spices in this dish, she takes a tentative bite, then digs in.
Her cell phone rings, except nothing rings anymore. The gadget explodes with an old Thai number she grew fond of when she was here a few years ago: “Sexy, Naughty, Bitchy.” She says, “Kimberley,” and listens. Then she says, “Shit,” and closes the phone.
“He committed suicide in Phnom Penh yesterday. Apparently he used an AK-47 and a piece of rope tied around the trigger, which is not easy to do, but I guess if you’re really determined to go that way…” She casts an eye over the remains of the meal, then looks at me. Hard to say what is causing my sudden loss of appetite: death; the manner thereof; the fact that the Masked Man will never be brought to justice; the memory of what he did to Damrong; the thought, only now surfacing in my mind, that I might have to make a visit to Phnom Penh. All of a sudden the energy has gone out of the day, and it’s not because Mercury is retrograde (though it is, and our prime minister is on record as observing what a corrosive effect it is having on political life; for me, Mercury can come or go, but Jupiter conjunct the Moon in Scorpio—now that’s a curl-up-in-bed-with-a-spliff day for yours truly).
This case has a trick of remaining perpetually out of reach, like a mirage. And no, I do not want to go to Cambodia; they hate us over there. Both sides have made so many land grabs over the centuries that no one really knows who started the feud, which shows no sign of diminishing no matter how many Thais cross the border to gamble. I guess they’ve never really forgiven us for defeating them at Angkor Wat that time: even in those days about seven hundred years ago, the Khmer were so reliant on magic they stopped bothering with combat training; the Thai invasion could be likened to a motorcycle gang smashing its way into an undefended sweet shop. We took everything they had: women, boys, girls, slaves, gold, their astrology and their temple designs, music, dance—it was an early example of identity theft. Not their cuisine, though, which was way behind ours and still is. If we’d known how long they were going to hold the grudge, we might have shown more mercy.
Suddenly the FBI and I don’t want our eyes to meet. Without the illusion of work, or at least a case to discuss, we are left to wonder what to do about each other. We sneak glances when we think the other is not looking, bestowing wonder and pity at each other’s karma. Finally Kimberley plays with a spare spoon on the table prior to getting something off her chest.
“Maybe it’s something about your country. I’m starting to feel like those middle-aged Western men you see walking up and down Sukhumvit with a girl on their arms half their age and looking like the cat that found the cream. I know I’m kidding myself.” Looking me in the eye at last: “I know that, or at least the left lobe does. But I can’t stop myself. Suddenly it’s spring again, the kind of spring I never had—there were always too many goals to aim for. When he’s around, I experience a deep sense of love, of affection, of compassion. What can I say? It’s what I was always supposed to experience as a human being, right? That’s what we’re here for, even though it’s totally impossible, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you didn’t go through this with Damrong.”
I inhale deeply. “Of course I did. When you notice light seeping into your coffin, it’s hard to go on pretending you’re dead. You know the promise of life is not entirely hollow. Ecstasy is not just the name of a drug—there is something behind stories of paradise.” I try to look at her with compassionate eyes. “If even a tiny part of you is still alive, you can’t refuse the challenge.”
She looks up with humble eyes. “So you forgive me?”
I slide my small hand over
her big one. “Just be careful.”
“You think I’ll destroy him?”
“The other way around.”
She looks up into the trees that surround the open-air restaurant. “He hardly even notices me, right? He’s not aware of me at all in that way.”
“How do you think the girls feel, when they walk down Sukhumvit with those farang men who grin like Cheshire cats? Do they feel like they found the cream too or merely a dirty job that pays better than factory work?”
She nods. “But the surgery, Sonchai. That’s just plain wrong.”
I shrug. No point getting back into that. We let a good ten minutes pass, during which the restaurant has started to play some old rock music on the sound system. At other tables a young Thai couple are looking as if they intend to spend the afternoon in a hotel nearby; five male middle managers in their twenties are having a lunchtime booze-up on rice whiskey; some farang tourists are poring over a map; and cats roam under tables looking for scraps. The FBI says, “I’ll come with you. You need to go to Phnom Penh—a detective like you has to see for himself. I want to go too—I’m here for the case, after all. Anyway, I need a reality check. Maybe if I’m in a different country, I won’t think about him so much.”
The FBI leaves me at Sala Daeng Skytrain station to go pack. I call Lek and tell him to meet me early this evening at his favorite katoey bar, called Don Juan’s. I go back to the station to deal with a pile of paperwork, then go home to change and to tell Chanya I’m going to Cambodia for a day or so with the FBI. She toys with jealousy for a moment, but it’s not enough to distract her from the soap she’s watching. Her egg-shaped center of gravity provides an imperturbable complacency these days. “I’m also going to see Lek’s moordu,” I admit.
She looks at me for a moment to make sure I’m serious, then smiles. “About time. Tell me if he’s any good.”
“It’s a katoey,” I explain.
She makes big eyes. “Even better.” Katoeys are known to make excellent moordus.
There are plenty of different expressions to denote transsexuals: second women, third sex, the different ones. I like Angels in Disguise best. Don Juan’s is crammed with them. Smooth brown feminized flesh, padded bras and silicon-enhanced buttocks, plenty of jewelry—especially silver necklaces—shapely legs, lascivious laughter, cheap perfume, and sophisticated camp combine to lift desperate spirits for a night. You have to admire their guts. I hardly recognize Lek in his lipstick, rouge, and mascara; a tight T-shirt emphasizes his budding breasts. I think he is wearing jeans rather than a skirt for my sake. He squeezes between sisters to reach me, beaming. I don’t think he’s given the FBI a single thought since her last lovelorn call to him.
“This is my boss, my master,” he tells his friends with unrestrained pride. “We’re working on the most terrifying case you can imagine.” He clamps a hand over his mouth. “But I can’t tell you anything about it, it’s so secret.”
“Pi-Lek is such a tease!” a katoey in long imitation-pearl earrings exclaims. “It’s such a privilege to meet you. Pi-Lek has told us all about you—we know you’re the most compassionate cop in Bangkok, in the whole world probably. Pi-Lek says you’re already a private Buddha and stay on earth only to spread enlightenment. It’s such an honor.”
“He exaggerates,” I say. “I’m just a cop.” It’s hard not to be borne along by the avalanche of charm.
“Come,” Lek says, “let’s go find Pi-Da.” To his friends: “You can all run along now—my master hasn’t come to waste time with silly girls.” He waves a dismissive hand at them, provoking imitation tantrums and stamping of feet. He takes me by the hand to lead me through a crowd near the bar, then across to the other side of the room. His voice is considerably less camp when he says, “Pi-Da, this is my boss, Detective Jitpleecheep.”
Pi-Da clearly belongs to the other category of katoey. In his forties, with a big round face, a paunch, and heavy legs, he was never beautiful, but his womanly soul must have yearned for self-expression all his life. Lek has explained he is a performer in the “ugly drag” cabarets that feature in most katoey bars, when they send up their own camp culture. He is also a kind of wise aunt who eschews campspeak and all the usual trappings of his kind. His voice is high and naturally feminine, though. He is assessing me shrewdly even while we wai each other. Then he takes my hand to maneuver me to a table, where we sit down. I watch him clear his mind while he stares at me and I sense his penetration of my heart. He shudders, makes big eyes, stares at Lek for a moment, then back at me. Lek’s face collapses when he says, “I’m sorry, this is too big for me, I can’t go there. This haunting is too powerful.” He makes a gesture to push me away. Lek and I share a moment of confusion; then Lek says, “You have embarrassed me.”
There is hardly a greater cultural sin. Pi-Da’s face collapses under Lek’s relentless glare. When Lek turns away in disgust, Pi-Da says reproachfully, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“You’re supposed to be clairvoyant. You’re supposed to look fearlessly into the Other Side,” Lek says more in sorrow than in anger. The whole of the katoey’s resentment at not being taken seriously is suddenly at issue here: if Pi-Da can’t handle heavy-duty hauntings, what kind of moordu is s/he anyway? Just another aging queen?
Pi-Da’s expression has changed. No longer the flabby aunt, he is now rather a man whose adulthood has been called into question. “We’ll have to go upstairs,” he says in a grim tone. Staring at me: “There will be no charge.”
“Upstairs” is a collection of rooms used for the storage of alcohol and boxes of snacks. Pi-Da clears a space, and the three of us sit on the floor. Pi-Da holds my hand again and closes his eyes. After about a minute he opens them again, but they seem to be unseeing. I watch with horror and fascination as he stands, places his hands on a wall, and bends forward with his backside sticking out. “Sonchai, why don’t you have me from behind like this? Whip me if you like.” It is Damrong’s voice to the last nuance. “You’re such a great lover, Detective, you remind me of a charging elephant.” A hysterical cackle.
Pi-Da shakes his head violently as if to break free. When he turns to us, his flesh is gray and he seems exhausted. “I can’t do more than that—her energy is too crude and too powerful. She’ll kill me if I let her take over. You have no idea what you’ve got involved with. This is Khmer sorcery, not a party game.” Without another word he leaves us to go back to the bar. Lek is staring at me with huge eyes.
“Yes,” I say, “it’s true. I had an affair with her.” I cannot face Lek any longer. I leave him to rush down the stairs two at a time into the anonymity of the busy Bangkok night.
26
There are lots of bankrupt states and plenty of kleptocracies; there are a few failed states; and there is Cambodia. After the Nixon holocaust: Pol Pot, generously supported by the CIA. Almost two million die in a civil war, except it’s not like other civil wars. Everyone here remembers the knock on the door in the middle of the night and relatives taken away in an oxcart, usually by a teen with a machine gun, never to be seen again except as corpses, often mutilated. Then there is Tuol Sleng, where the torturing took place, and the skull mountains in Choeung Ek. Among the Cambodians themselves, a universal numbness hides psychic scars that go to the marrow. Many appear to be sleepwalking, random thuggery is an everyday hazard, “girls, guns, gambling, and ganja” are the economy, corruption is the work ethic, child abuse a national sport. You can use the local currency if you’re feeling quaint, but everyone prefers American dollars. Naturally the capital, Phnom Penh, attracts NGOs like flies; pale pampered European faces look out from the tinted windows of four-by-fours. A lot of the city is crumbling. At the police station Kimberley flashes her credentials. Neither of us has any investigative rights here, but then nobody here obeys the rules. It’s not difficult to get them to cooperate for a hundred dollars.
The apartment where Stanislaus Kowlovski died is on a side street about two hundred yards from the Meko
ng. We duck out of a blinding sun, following a cop whose uniform may be the only legal thing he owns. A short, stooping brown guy with some fingers missing from both hands, he believes we’ll be excited by the blood and goo on the wall. He is. The stains are buried under a swarm of flies, though. He sniggers, “Big American, what a body, dead now. Crazy. What kind of pain could he possibly have, a white man? All over the country there are people who can hardly walk for the anguish they feel; others cannot walk because their legs were blown away by land mines. This guy had everything. With a body like that he could have had any woman he wanted, even farang women. Crazy.”
They showed us the gun at the police station, a Chinese-made Kalashnikov. You can buy them almost anywhere here: if they charge more than two hundred dollars, they’re ripping you off. When the cops took the gun, though, they left the cord he used to pull the trigger, via a pinion he had fixed in the stock, which he must have held between his feet. A bloody way to go—it took out the whole of his lower intestine and snapped his spine—but it did the trick. The FBI and I pay no attention to anything except the cord. You have to believe Kowlovski was making a statement here, perhaps a confession: it is bright orange, about a centimeter thick, just like the rope he used to kill Damrong.
“You okay?” the FBI says.
“Sure.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Get him to show us the belongings.”
He takes his orders from her rather than me, obviously, and shows us out of the living room (linoleum, one dirty sofa, a TV) to the bedroom, where a suitcase is lying on the bed. Naturally anything valuable he might have owned will not be found. We rummage around a collection of clothes all designed to showcase his outstanding physique and way too big for any Cambodian cop, then find his money belt buried at the bottom. There’s no money in it, of course, but there are a few spent airline tickets and something else. The FBI looks at it quizzically and hands it to me. It is a varnished elephant-hair bracelet. I tell her about the one Tom Smith was wearing, last time I saw him, and that Baker also had one. “Smith said an eccentric monk gave it to him at a Skytrain station.”