Cambodia Noir Read online

  He stands up, then sits down, not sure what to do with himself. “It was about five thirty, in the middle of deadline. You had just left. And this woman walks into my office, asking if I know where June is. I said, sure: she’s taking a few days to go to Siem Reap, see Angkor, maybe go up to Laos. I haven’t heard from her. Why would I? She’ll be back to get her stuff when she’s done. Except then I realized, she’s been gone for two whole weeks. And the woman—the sister—says yes, June didn’t make her plane home, they’re all concerned.”

  “So, any reason someone would target her and Bunny?”

  “You have Cambo on the brain. Am I worried about June? Of course, but not like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “The girl was bright, okay? Focused. But not so great when it came to taking care of herself. She got in a moto accident, some little scrape, and she got a tiny bit of a cut on her leg. She just wraps it up, doesn’t mention it to anyone—a couple weeks later she winds up in hospital in Sihanoukville. She’d been wandering around in the swamps and thing’s got infected. This’ll be the same, or something like it.”

  “Humor me.” For some reason, I don’t want to tell him about the suitcases yet. “We have a dead journo and a missing one, and you’re saying no connection?”

  He thinks a long time before he answers. “You put it that way, it looks odd, but they’re too different. Bunny . . .” He pauses, giving me that firecracker look again. I wait. He breathes deep. “You said it yourself: Bunny was public relations. Whoever killed him wanted everyone to know. June just never came back. Now if—if something happened to her that wasn’t an accident, then it was timed just right, eh? So no one would notice for days, weeks even. I can think of lots of people who might go after journos, and lots of reasons why, but I can’t make those two things sit right.”

  “And they didn’t know each other? We’ve got nothing that puts them together?”

  He shakes his head. “I can look, but it’ll be hard without telling everyone she’s gone.”

  Kara whispering in my head: “I want it done quietly.” “It bug you the sister didn’t want police?”

  He nods. “She’d heard the cops could be into trafficking, she was worried about a blond half-Japanese girl.”

  “You saw June. Think that was likely?”

  “Who the fuck knows, man? She was no beauty queen, but with the sick bastards out there, who can tell?”

  “I’m guessing you called the hospitals in Siem Reap already?”

  He nods. “And the ones along the way—as many as I could without getting noticed. Nothing yet.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Night before she left. Right here. She was packing, came down to bring me some kitchen stuff she wasn’t going to need anymore. Said she would sleep in before getting the boat, so I wouldn’t see her in the morning.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “Went to the club at six, then the office.”

  “So we don’t even know for sure she went upriver. She could have hit the airport, be in Djibouti by now. Any reason she might take off? Family troubles, love, money?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Drugs?”

  “Never that I saw.”

  “Boyfriends, any reason to skip out?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “What was she into?”

  “Just—quiet? I didn’t see her out much—kept to herself, except for work. She was a good writer: clever as hell, kept at a story until she got it. Not much else.”

  “You’re a real lifesaver here, Gus. You call yourself a journalist, you might try asking a question or two of your staff sometime.”

  “Well, I didn’t know she was going to fucking vanish!”

  From nowhere, I’m furious. Feel the ache in my bones, blood in my eyes—I think I’m shouting. “The fuck country do you think this is? You think we’re in Switzerland? We’re where every backpacker and junkie and psycho on the planet comes to die—”

  “And you’re the fucking expert on that, aren’t you?”

  —and then it’s gone. My head hurts. I suck on another Advil and watch the lovebirds, who appear to be screwing. “Paying a little attention wouldn’t have killed you.”

  “Well, too goddamn late now.”

  We stay like that a minute or two, staring at the walls. Gus pulls a cigarette from my pack. Lights it, inhales—the deep drag of a longtime quitter who’s come back to the fold. Lets the smoke out slow.

  Once he’s got his nicotine, he turns back to me. “I shouldn’t have got you into this.” He’s got that pitying look on his face again. “Try not to let it get to you.”

  Try to stay calm: “Why the fuck would it get to me?”

  He’s about to answer, then changes his mind. I almost ask him—

  You don’t want to know.

  “Widen the net with the hospitals. Call ’em all. I’ll cut you in for your time.” He waves the offer off, takes another cigarette. “While you’re at it, ring that friend of Klein’s in Bangkok. Let’s hack her e-mail, see if there’s anything useful there.” He nods, and I have a moment of not hating his guts. “Why did you get me into this?”

  He turns, stares, says nothing: waiting for me to have whatever realization he thinks I should be having. I stub out my cigarette on his coffee table. One more scar.

  He sighs. “Anything bad happens, you’re the first one there.”

  * * *

  After that, I let him drive me to the hospital. I need drugs, in quantity, and given my state, scoring them isn’t hard. Two ribs turn out to be cracked, but not bad. On the plus side, the fingers aren’t broken. I’ll heal—if I can avoid getting the shit kicked out of me again.

  I know what I should be doing now: I should be buttonholing June’s friends, asking what they know about her. Most of the time, when family report someone missing, there’s a love interest they don’t know about, or an addiction. Someone knows, though—a friend, a work buddy. Poke around a bit, the answer pops up. But June’s mates are journos: I start asking questions, ten minutes later the whole thing’s on CNN. Kara wanted this quiet. She has a reason—and I’d like to know what it is. For now, at least, I play along. Two weeks out, it doesn’t matter if I keep things close for a few days.

  Also: I’d like to get paid.

  I can’t ask around, but maybe I’ve got something better: I’ve got a diary. A part of me is aching to go back and take a look, but there are things I need first. Cash. Possibly divine intervention. Time to call on the Angel Gabriel.

  * * *

  Heaven is poorly lit and smells of vomit. It’s about 3 million degrees inside, tinfoil and duct tape over the windows. There is no vileness like a real junkie’s lair, but the man has what I need.

  Before he was a junkie, he was a journo, I know this for a fact. Before that, they say he was a priest. At the moment he’s a sweaty, scratching mess, trying to control the effects of the recent drought with various painkillers: a man on the edge of a fix but not quite able to fall in.

  “Brought you some Percocet.”

  He bolts the door behind me and collapses against it, snatching at the remains of his beard with stained fingers as he inspects the packet. “Waddaya want for ’em?”

  “Work. I need cash, and fast. What you got? Anything moving in the city?”

  He looks me up and down like he’s trying to remember who I am. “You’re presentable these days,” he mutters. “Except for the face, that’s a bit of a problem, huh? Oh, and the arm . . . Actually, you look like shit, it’s this town, huh, does that to you. . . . But you know your way around, I guess—got a joint?”

  I look for a place to sit. Dirty mattresses, spotted with mildew. Pizza boxes and beer cans. Six broken televisions. Piles of books everywhere, on the floor and against the walls, bristling with black-and-green fungus. Gabriel paces, never stopping his low, murmured monologue: hard to tell if he’s talking to you or himself.

  “—little fuckers are sup
posed to clean, but half the time they just take their pills and run, I’m afraid of moving half this stuff, I don’t know what’s underneath, but I figure it’s all a metaphor—hey, welcome to Cambodia post-government—like that’s new—are we having fun yet?” I sweep the spoons and candle ends off a cracked end table and start rolling. “This whole situation is fucked, fucked, fucked, like rusty chainsaw—” He stops to breathe and grins, a jungle ruin of gray-and-yellow teeth. “I got something you could do, but you won’t like it.”

  “No kids.” It’s starting to hurt to talk.

  “Relax. I just want to utilize your photographic skills—”

  “No kids.”

  “Heh, hoo, oh, this is worse, worse, but I think you go for this kind of bad. Ever hear of a guy named Van Chennarith?”

  “Nah.”

  “One of those little fuckers, boy-band gangster, dresses like NSYNC and acts like Pol Pot, but—but his father is who you worry about, he’s po-lice, and high up, sure, I mean this guy—I’ve heard shit, okay? Serious shit—but politically not really a power on his own. He’s a gofer for bigger players, gets to stick his fat thumb in every dirty cunt in the city”—Gabriel matches the gesture to the obscenity, hand twitching like a palsy victim’s—“guns, drugs, you name it. Unfortunately for him, his son is a genuine back-door boy, takes it in the ass on a regular basis, mostly from foreigners—and for pleasure, apparently, not cash—yeah, that one always bewilders me, too, so”—he catches his breath—“I want pictures.”

  I whistle. “On second thought, I’ll take the kiddie porn. That’ll just get you prison. This’ll get you dead.”

  “It’s the job I have.”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  He names a figure—it’s satisfactory.

  “How long I got?”

  “Five days.”

  I nod and light the joint.

  “There a lot of stuff moving through the city now?” I ask again, trying to be casual. I’m sure he sees right through me.

  His smile comes back as he leans forward. “Shitloads. More than anyone’s ever seen before, or anyhow that’s the rumor, because no one’s actually seen it: no one’s selling. All for export.”

  “This the stuff they bagged on Friday?”

  “Maybe.” He fumbles for a lighter. He doesn’t know.

  That’s why he needs me. “I need an advance.” Pass him the pot.

  “Pick me up more Percocet, and I’ll give ya two thousand up front.” Gabriel never leaves his apartment, has to have all his drugs couriered in.

  “Four. You don’t want this traced. I’ll have to buy a plane ticket.”

  He rises, suddenly tired looking, and stalks off into some indescribable kitchen in search of cash.

  Doing a job for him is a bad idea. Doing this job is a really bad idea—but I haven’t had many good ones lately. It works out all right: Either my luck comes back or I’m dead in a week.

  “One more thing,” I say, as the junkie trots back with my money. “Got any roofies?”

  * * *

  By the time I get free, the world is fraying at the edges. Gabriel wanted to rant, and I was in that vile hole for hours as he smoked joint after joint of my stuff and shouted about useless American politicians and the war in Iraq and the war on drugs. The swan song of the world’s last great junkie philosopher.

  The street outside is pitch-black, and I cling to the wall, trying to get my bearings. Head for the river. Even with the drugs, the pain has grown into a living thing, spreading out from my ribs until all I can think about is how much I hurt. I can hardly stand up straight. I need rest, and food—can’t remember when I last ate.

  In the corner of my eye, a shadow moves. I try to walk faster, stumble, slide nearly to the ground before I catch myself on the wall again. The motodops across the street rev their engines and mutter—who knows who they’re working for?

  Christ: getting paranoid. Too long in the dark. Got to get to the river—

  Two blocks feels like two years.

  The Edge is a mirage, glowing. Channi’s eyes go big when she spots me, and she runs out from behind the bar to take my ruined face in her hands.

  “What happen?” Her voice is husky with concern.

  “I thought I’d try kickboxing,” I say, in Khmer.

  “You’re even dumber than most foreigners,” she snaps. She’s older when she speaks her own language. Tougher. I try to laugh, and my face twists in pain. She puts her hand on my shoulder, smiles like she knows the feeling. For a second, she’s another person. Then she switches to English, and the pixie girl is back: “I get you beer.”

  “Food,” I mutter, and collapse in a chair. It’s getting cooler. The rain must have come while I was inside, and a breeze sweeps away the day’s stale heat. Beer helps. I want a burger, but my face won’t move much, so I settle for rice and fish soup. Pop the last of my Advil. The place is empty, and Channi sits with me while I eat. She doesn’t ask any questions, just watches as I ladle the broth onto the rice and chew, painfully.

  I take a good look at her. She’s as dark as the polished wood of the bar, and her profile has the placid curves of a stone Apsara. She dresses to keep the wolves off—no halter tops and cutoffs for her. Tonight it’s a loose white blouse with a plunging neck, over skinny jeans and simple black flats. It says, No, really, I’m a waitress. Lacquered bracelets clatter at her wrists. Her eyes are huge and bright, and when she turns them on me I forget who I am for a minute.

  She’s got Tom Waits on the stereo. The drums dance with the twinkling lights of the bar, and some of the knots in my head come undone. I could sit here forever, just watching—but I’m going to crash soon. I need to get back to the house.

  Order another beer.

  Channi gets it and goes back to cleaning glasses.

  For as long as I can, I just sit, aching fingers tracing the wicker strands in the arm of my chair. I’m realizing I don’t want to go back. I might even be avoiding it—avoiding her. June and her journal. For some reason I can’t put my finger on, they frighten me.

  But it’s too late: nothing else left.

  I give Channi a tip as I leave, and she reaches out and presses my good hand: gentle, unsmiling.

  “Be careful,” she says in Khmer.

  * * *

  My bedroom. Bats screaming outside the window; June’s notebooks on my desk. I take the one on top of the pile. On the cover, a Raphaelite sort of angel, drawn in ink: pendulously male, limp wrist and bloody sword. Radiating out from him, a starburst of color, razored from magazines in tiny strips, so only hints remain of the original image—glimpses of desert, sea, of strange machinery.

  Now, with June’s history in my hand, the feeling is stronger than ever: I don’t want to read it. Whatever happened, I don’t want to know.

  I could walk away. Turn around and dump this all on Gus’s doorstep, find some way to pay back Kara; I could come up with a reason—

  The reasons make no sense. The only way out is to go on.

  I open the book.

  It’s worse than I thought.

  The pages are thick with pasted-in pictures, tickets, notes—little tokens, fetishes. Words go up, down, any way that fits: written between lines and in margins and over other entries in different colors, even different languages. I see English, French, Italian . . . characters that must be Japanese. In places, great chunks of text are blacked out with marker. She doesn’t say where she is, or when: time and place come as Paris metro fares and Brazilian train tickets. I find Cambodia by the newspaper clippings; it takes up most of two volumes. Her boarding passes are right there, the stubs glued to the page.

  “A tiny plane, smelling of cigarettes . . .”

  She arrives late, on the last Saturday of June. In thirteen weeks, she will be gone.

  Except for this.

  DIARY

  July 5

  God, God, why do I do this to myself? I knew, I must have known, what waited here—did I really think I could stee
r my way past all the bitter, sharp, and poisonous things that give this place its reputation? And yet I let myself be drawn, again and again, to these . . . these excrescences of death.

  It only took a week for them to get me to the torture chamber.

  On Saturday afternoon, I hired a moto driver to take me around the city. It was only supposed to be a tour. I remember the rest of it like some distant dream: cruising through the beautiful old parts of Phnom Penh under a blue sky, around buildings in a hundred states of gorgeous decrepitude, pagodas and temples with roofs guarded by naga, the nine-headed snake-angels that are supposed to protect against evil spirits. I visited the wat in the center of the city, and it was like a tiny slice of forest, quiet and serene, while in the nearby streets angelic monks wandered through traffic unscathed with their tame elephant. When the driver told me the name of the last stop, I didn’t understand it, I just nodded and let myself be taken to Tuol Sleng.

  The name means “poisoned hill,” and when properly pronounced it sounds like a curse. At first it was a school, now it’s a monument . . . but for a time in between, it was Hell.

  In 1975, the Khmer Rouge took over this country, instituting radical agrarian communism. They called it Year Zero: history ended and began anew. Overnight they emptied the cities, sending whole populations on a forced march back to their home villages—villages they might not have lived in for generations. How many died on that march? Thousands? Tens of thousands? They slaughtered anyone with any kind of education, and when it came time to build their agrarian paradise there was no one left who knew how to build, or dig a sewer, or run a functioning farm. Over the next three years, millions succumbed to famine and disease. Leaders grew desperate for someone to blame, and supposed spies and enemies of the state were taken to Tuol Sleng, and places like it, where they were interrogated about imaginary conspiracies, tortured and executed. Their piled skulls reach the ceilings.

  By the time the Vietnamese invaded and drove the Khmer Rouge back to the hills, a third of Cambodia’s population had been killed. Those who survived were changed: their identity was bound up in death. They had nothing left, save the knowledge that something terrible happened to them. You cannot understand us, they say, unless you have been to Tuol Sleng. Unless you have seen our skulls in grinning piles; seen the iron bed-frames to which our uncles chained our parents for torture; seen the flesh still hanging from the hooks like leather, the blood still on the floors . . .