Cambodia Noir

by Nick Seeley

  “No idea.”

  “Is old story, like Angkor.” She points at the big fellow with a head full of feathers. “He is prince and love beautiful girl. But demon steal her and take her to island.”

  “Is that the demon?”

  “No, demon before!” I should have known. “That monkey god, prince friend. Prince is also god. So he and monkey go to island, to rescue girl from demon.”

  The tent seems to grow darker: I do know this story. On the screen, the shadow prince swings his arms, dancing some dance to get the monkey king to come with him. What lies does he tell, what screws does he turn, to drag his friend along on this suicide mission?

  “What’s wrong?” Channi asks, in her own language. Doesn’t give me a chance to answer, just puts her hands to my face. “You live in a shadow. Will you tell me the story, someday?”

  “I’m a lousy storyteller,” I say, in English.

  She doesn’t laugh or look away. “But you will tell me.” It’s not a question.

  “Yes. But not today.”

  * * *

  Channi leaves me in the field where the food vendors have set up, and we say good-bye wreathed in sweet-smelling meat smoke. Khmers don’t do public displays of affection, so I’m surprised again when she stands on her toes and kisses my cheek before walking away. As the light hits her, I see her slim figure silhouetted through her dress. My face burns.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel like someone dropped two hits of acid in my Coke. My head buzzes; the colored lights shift and burn, the paper lanterns dance in the red sun. I wander through the crowd, letting it all wash over me, the smoke and the incense and the far-off thrum of drum and gamelan.

  But as the sun gets low, the feeling is replaced by another, a pins-and-needles sensation that starts in my thumbs and spreads quickly upward. Something’s wrong. I buy a roast chicken and haggle with the seller, eyes roving. Scan the crowd.

  To my left, a face: Khmer, young, nondescript clothes. Watching me close. Another to my right. I don’t know them, but the list of people who want a piece of me is as long as my arm. The crowd is pressing in on all sides. Laughing faces, swaying lights. I try to push through. A little girl in a purple tank top swings her cotton candy like a mace. A string of firecrackers pops. Shove against the bodies. Cheers and explosions.

  Corner of my eye: that hard face, coming closer. He knows he’s been made, but he’s not backing off. He’s not here to watch—or to talk.

  I edge deeper into the press, blood pumping. The crowd surges and I think of stampedes, people crushed on their feet in the O-Bon celebrations, angry mobs beating thieves to death. I can’t risk a fight, not here. I’m moving as fast as I can, waiting for the bright feeling of a knife in the back. On the river, Roman candles split the air as the boats go by. A burst of static from an amplifier. I see something glint through the crowd, a flash of blond hair. I shove my way toward it but there are too many people—they’re gathered in front of a giant screen showing one of the king’s movies from the sixties.

  As I turn, one of those shadows is right behind me, just feet away, glaring over the heads of a family pushing between us: a little girl up on her father’s shoulders, boy laughing, waving a toy gun.

  I can’t get lost in this crowd—too tall. I wedge my way around two young men of Senn’s crew. They give me little waves and I grin back at them as I push on. Make a break around the side of the screen. The FCC isn’t far now; it’ll be packed with foreigners. Cover. I dash past the food sellers. Don’t look back. Don’t think how close they are. Footsteps, coming hard. I tear around the front and dive into the ornate colonial lobby.

  The place is heaving, tables crowded with drunk journalists. As I reach the midpoint of the stairs, I glance down, see my shadows pushing in the front door, looking for me. Hurry up and into the hall, pass the bathrooms and the storage closet. I put my shoulder to the door at the end, and it busts open onto a first-floor balcony. Below, empty green fields, the museum in the distance. I take a deep breath and go over the railing, clinging to the rotting wood, white paint peeling away under my fingers. Hang low, praying the grass is soft.

  Falling takes forever. The balcony drifts away like the stern of a ship pulling out of harbor, and for a moment I think I see someone with blond hair framed in the hallway door.

  Pain shoots up my leg and I’m rolling through the grass. I ignore the sting, running as fast as I can across the park to the corner by my house. Prik is still there, lounging on his bike, my first luck in days.

  I almost scream as I run up, “Norodom Street, now! Don’t be followed.” He guns the starter, and then we’re racing like skiers, dodging motos and sliding between fruit carts, and I’m looking over my shoulder at nothing but dust.

  Channi, I think, they saw me with Channi.

  * * *

  I can’t go back, I’ll lead them right to her. I huddle in the bathroom stall at the InterCon, whispering every prayer I once knew, as Gus’s phone rings on and on. Pick up, goddamn you, pick up.

  Seven rings. Eight. It cuts off. Dial again.

  Two. She’s got to be safe in a bar full of expats.

  Three. They could have got to her already.

  Four.

  Five. Click.

  “The fuck, man, where are you?”

  “Gus, listen, I need a favor.”

  “Don’t you always? What are you doing, I’ve got guys in suits running all over me! Did I mention—” He breaks off. Fuck, fuck.

  “Listen, please, it’s not me, just help—I need help. There’s a girl, works at the new bar across from the FCC. Name’s Chantrea, Channi, Channi! Find her. Watch out for her, call—call some of the guys you train with, get them in, but watch her. Keep her safe.”

  “All right,” he says, cautious. “I’ll make sure they meet deadline.” They’re listening. “You okay?”

  “Just do this one thing for me. For God’s sake, keep her safe.” I think I’m crying—

  I can’t do this again. I won’t survive.

  I have no choice.

  “I’ll make sure,” Gus says. “You look after yourself.”

  I hang up, breathing hard, bang my head slowly against the side of the stall. Look down at the message that’s appeared on my phone.

  Unknown number.

  CHRISTOPHER G-R STAYING AT GRAND ANGKOR HOTEL, SIEM REAP, STREET 17. ONE NIGHT.

  Good to have friends in high places.

  WILL

  NOVEMBER 1–2

  Spray hits my face as the fast boat races over the water.

  I barely remember getting here. Caught the last boat on a Saturday, and the cabin was half-empty. An old couple leaning back and trying to sleep. Crew of strung-out backpackers. Two Asian men in suits. Everyone looking at their books, at the floor, at the fancy food in molded-plastic trays. Still, I couldn’t take the eyes, so I came up to the deck.

  Every few minutes I take the phone out and look at the messages, just to make sure they’re still there.

  SAFE: HAVE EYES ON. G. Every time I read it, my breath stops all over again. But my pulse is pounding, on and on and on: it hasn’t slowed in hours.

  CHRISTOPHER G-R STAYING AT GRAND ANGKOR HOTEL.

  When I put the phone away, the drumming eats at me until I have to look again. I don’t know how this happened—how it got its fingers in me so fast. I should go back. Find Channi, convince her to come with me, get the hell out of this country before it’s too late for both of us—

  I can’t—and it is like being torn apart.

  Gus saw this coming. “Try not to let it get to you.” I didn’t listen.

  The moonlit river ripples, bound by marsh trees dripping moss. Beyond, pools and half-flooded fields: water country. I look for temples shaped like demons.

  And in their shadows, June.

  * * *

  The Grand Angkor Hotel is a ramshackle guesthouse on a back street. Old, wood-frame, two stories. A tiny garden out front, fenced in by partitions splashed wi
th green Heineken ads: no one there. Little whitewashed houses to the left, tall grass to the right.

  Past eleven when I arrive. I make the moto drop me at the head of the street and walk down. New backpack over my shoulder, stuffed with beer cans for weight. I don’t have much of a plan. No one makes a break for it as I come up the drive and into the lobby, so I get a room.

  I don’t go to it.

  Up the stairs; a landing, rough brown boards. A military-style cot lying in the corner. Roach corpses. Real wooden doors, painted red long ago and trying to forget it. I go to number four and knock, hard. No answer. No sound inside. He’s out getting drunk.

  I walk to the end of the hall, where a dust-caked window looks down on the gravel drive. Now I wait.

  * * *

  He comes up the path at half past two, face flushed with booze. He’s cut his hair down to a blond stubble. I move fast, and quiet.

  His steps are heavy on the stairs, and he walks right past me: on the cot, shoes off, shirt over me like a blanket. Just another backpacker, sleeping cheap. Then he’s at his door, key in the lock. I hear it click and I’m up, behind him, arm around his throat and shoving him into the dark room.

  Gasps. Not loud. I realize I’ve got him dangling, face going crimson. Loosen my grip. “I just want to talk, but I promise if you scream, the conversation will be unpleasant.”

  A weak nod.

  Less than two days back, and it’s come to this.

  I squeeze until his head will be spinning, then let him drop. Take the key from the lock, ease the door shut. Turn back and he’s got a hand in his bag. I drop my knee into his throat, catch the gun as he fumbles it up.

  “Here I thought we were friends,” I say, and take the gun. Then I hit him with it.

  * * *

  I tie Number Two up with his back against the bed. Rope his hands together with one end of the sheet, his ankles with the other. Not the kind of knots that hold, but he won’t make any sudden moves. Stuff a shirt in his mouth. Done, I step out into the hall for my bag. I could use a beer. Then I take a look at the gun. It’s a Chinese piece of shit, just like his locks. Bought cheap from some moto—the gangsters carry better kit. I check that it’s loaded.

  Two stirs, starting to come around. I hold the gun up for him to see.

  “You know you couldn’t have shot me with this, right?” His eyes are big as headlights: the last few weeks haven’t made me any prettier. “You gotta chamber a round first.” I do it. “Now you can shoot somebody.”

  Once I’m sure he’s aware of the situation, I set the gun next to me, in reach. “Wanna beer?”

  He nods. I take the gag out, slowly, then hold up the can and give him a long swig. He sighs.

  I sit back down on the floor. “Sorry about this.” He stares. “I guess we’re friends, or what passes for it out here, but I’ve had a hard few weeks. I got broken ribs and broken teeth and I goddamn near lost my eye. I’ve seen a lotta people killed, and I’m willing to add to the number. But I’m still a hell of a lot nicer than the guys who come next. So talk to me.” He nods. “Let’s start with why you’re carrying that.” Point at the gun.

  “I was afraid he’d come after me.”

  “Who?”

  Two hesitates. “He’ll kill me.”

  “I can break a knee or something, you want me to prove I’m serious. I can do it quiet.” Pick up the shirt again.

  “Samnang, his name—is Pisit Samnang! He’s, uh . . . he—”

  “I know who he is.”

  The worst cop in Cambo. The one I was afraid to go to, to ask about June’s police connections—

  You think you own him, then you realize he owns you.

  —but he was the connection all along. He’s the guy Barry saw arguing with June—the same one she spied on in Number Two’s apartment. Her Bad Lieutenant.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “In the Heart, a few weeks after I came. He . . .” Two chokes up.

  I let him stare at the floor and sniffle for a minute before I say anything. “I know what he did. He scored for you. Gave you your walk on the wild side—kept it nice and easy. Let you get in deeper and deeper.” Two nods. Wheels clicking in my head. “When did things start to go bad? After Sihanoukville?” Now he looks at me, mouth open. “I know all sorts of things. You just worry about the answers.”

  “Yeah. Sihanoukville. Things had been weird since that shipment got stopped in Sydney. Sam’s supply was in trouble, there was a crackdown and he had no access.” In Two’s face, shame and fear struggle with a twisted kind of pride. “He thought he was getting cut out of something, so he wanted me to chat up people for him. I have contacts from work, I could find out if they knew anything, without anyone getting suspicious.”

  “That why you got June involved—to help you get information? Or did you just figure she was an easy lay—”

  “No! Fuck, mate, it wasn’t like that!”

  “She was vulnerable, so you—”

  “I was lonely!”

  “You, with your dozen girlfriends?”

  “Christ, it was a blag, all right? You buy a girl a drink, bit of chat, drive her home, and everyone thinks you’ve pulled. But it never happens, everyone’s too, I dunno, fuckin’ scared. This place, right? You don’t get close to anyone. Then June . . . I’m not proud, okay? The first few times, I was fucking legless. But . . . in Sihanoukville, it was like Shakespeare or something: we took the piss, but we talked, too. Really talked about stuff, right, not just who’s shooting at who? She liked my writing, she cared about the work. It felt good. I didn’t realize . . .”

  He’s trailed off, lost in his thoughts.

  “Realize what?”

  He snaps back to reality, looking puzzled. Then he laughs—a bitter cackle that sets my teeth on edge. “All that stuff you know . . . but you still don’t get it.”

  “Tell me. Be convincing.”

  He pauses, gathering himself. “For a while, I thought me and June were really something. . . . Then she started asking questions. Where did I get my stuff, what did I know about drug dealers. I said, ‘Bugger all,’ obviously. But she knew. She knew about Sam, wanted to meet him. I was meant to set it up, or she’d tell Gus that Sam was dealing to me, and then I’m fucked, back in bloody King’s Cross eating shit.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I told Sam. He went fucking mental on me at first, but June said she knew who was cutting off the heroin, and he couldn’t resist.” Another pause. I wait it out. “You know the fucked-up thing? Even after all that, I still thought, ‘Oh, she’s just a kid.’ I thought I could handle her. But once she got with Sam . . . she had big ideas. They were gonna move in on this new outfit, get a piece of the action. Sam just wanted to know what was going on, but June wouldn’t give him details. I think she started sleeping with him, but I didn’t care by then, I just wanted to get away from her. But Sam said I’d brought her in, so I had to keep her close. Keep an eye on her, it was for her own good. . . .” He’s running out of breath again.

  Cut to the chase: “Why was she doing all this?”

  That angry laugh again. “I have no idea.”

  I put a boot in his ribs, just for emphasis. “You can do better than that. Was it her family?”

  “I dunno! Whatever her shit was, I don’t—”

  Reach out and grab a finger, bend it back. “There has to be a reason.”

  “I don’t know!”

  Clap a hand over his mouth: “Softly.” He nods. I take my hand away.

  “Open my shirt,” he says.

  “You gonna try something stupid?”

  He groans, shakes his head. I slide the gun across the room, well out of reach. Then I undo his top buttons. He smells of whiskey, cologne, and sweat. On his chest: four long, puckered trails of pink skin.

  “June gave me those. Her idea of fun. She was always different in bed. Wild, like . . . like a whole other person. At first it was a kick, right? Intense. But then it got . . . just fuck
ing mental. She kept . . . she wanted me to . . .” He can’t finish; tries again. “We’d meet up in hotels, different ones. One night, she shows up with some Thai girl who’s smacked out of her head, and June wants me to cut her. I fucked off, so the next day she sent the same girl to me at the office. I had to try an’ blag it with Gus, and June’s just sitting there, watching, not even fussed.” He looks up at me, and in his eyes there’s nothing at all. “It was the kind of thing you would do.” His gaze moves to the beer. “Can I have another sip of that?” It’s barely touched. Pour a long swallow down his throat. “June was brilliant at keeping her cool in public, but when she was tripping, things got bad—”

  “I thought she didn’t do drugs.”

  “You have no idea. She did more drugs than me, more than you. Smack if she had it, which wasn’t much, or a bloody medicine cabinet of other shit. Special K, lots of it, then snorting yaba to go to work and play schoolgirl. She had everyone fooled. But when we were alone, she’d get paranoid and take it out on me.”

  I have nothing left to say. And he just keeps talking.

  “June didn’t care about the money. Not at the end . . . maybe never. She didn’t care about the story. Or me, or Sam, or even the drugs. June didn’t have reasons. She just wanted to see what was in the dark.”

  I want to say he’s wrong, he’s lying. I want to hit him again.

  “So what happened to her?”

  “Sam had enough. He said she was out of control, but he still wanted what she knew. So he came up with this crazy plan, they were going to steal this shipment themselves and take it to Sam’s contacts in the army. He never meant to go through with it, it was just to get her to tell him what was up. He figured June would go for it, it was her kind of crazy—but she held out, said the army was too small, they needed the guys behind the army. So Sam gets this other idea, he has some contact coming in from Hong Kong, some big gangster. And he has me talk the guy up to June like he’s the power behind the heroin trade. Then he tells June they’ll take the stuff to him. It was bullshit, but she went for it. She made up the Siem Reap trip as cover, and they went out to Koh Kong.”