Cambodia Noir (32 page)

“Was there a memo?” I say. “Keller's back, everybody go nuts?”

“We'd like to ask you a few questions.” Black suits, sidearms poorly concealed in shoulder rigs: guess the Feds have arrived.

“You couldn't have phoned?”

“You're a hard man to find, Mr. Keller,” the small, skinny one says.

“You found me in my bedroom.” Silence. The big, fat one really wants to come back with something witty, but he can't—not without telling me how much he knows about where I've been and what I've been doing. So they just stand there, Laurel and Hardy, looking at their shoes.

“You want a beer?”

They blink. “No, thank you,” Laurel says automatically.

Hardy glares at him. “You should take this seriously, Mr. Keller. We're working closely with Cambodian law enforcement. If you don't talk to us, we can get them involved.”

I might actually laugh. Instead, I step forward, into the light: let them get a good look at what's left of my face.

“Are you trying to scare me? I'm happy to answer your questions, but I've had a long day, and I want a beer first.” They don't answer, so I get one. Fridge is dead: it's warm.

“Have a seat,” Laurel says.

“Where?”

He's sitting in the only chair.

Hardy looks like he might start beating up his partner any minute.
Another nice mess you've gotten me into.
“What can you tell us about Ju-on Koroshi?”

“Not a damn thing you don't already know. She's supposed to be dead, but she was here, maybe, except now she's gone missing and I haven't found her.”

He looks angry: I think he was expecting denials. “What about the sister, Karasu Koroshi?”

“She's cute. I think she's single. You wanna get more specific?”

“If you're gonna make jokes—”

“Relax,” Laurel steps in. “We mean, what's your relationship with her?”

“I work for her.”

“Doing what?”

“I just told you I was looking for June, so take a wild stab in the dark.”

Hardy decides to lose it. “Bullshit. You know something about the Koroshis' operation, and you better wise up and start giving us straight answers. Right now it's them we're interested in, but you start playing games and we may need to take a closer look at you.”

“You're close enough to break into my room.”

“Your landlady let us—” Laurel starts, but I run right over him: My turn to get pissed.

“Look, I'm answering your questions—never mind you guys showing up without badges or paperwork, or even telling me who you are. Now if you wanna get hostile, I'll start by asking what jurisdiction you have here, exactly?”

I half expect Hardy to go for the cuffs, but Laurel steps in again, playing good cop like he thinks he's got a talent for it. “Mr. Keller, we're liaisons for the US Drug Enforcement Administration, here to assist the local authorities. I'm Agent Klowper, this is Agent Schmidt. The Koroshis are . . . persons of interest in an ongoing investigation, and we just want to find out as much about why they're here as possible. Anything you can offer would be useful.”

“Since you're here, you already know what I know. Someone answering June Koroshi's description was here, working under the alias June Saito. She had Kara Koroshi's number listed as her emergency contact. When she disappeared, Kara came out here and asked me to find her.”

“You never reported her missing, to the embassy or the authorities.”

“Hard to report a dead girl missing.”

“About that,” Laurel says. “Did Karasu say anything to you about what really happened to her sister five years ago?”

“Never. I assumed it was your buddies at the FBI, pulling her out so she could turn on the rest of the family.”

I'm expecting Laurel to come back at me, but instead his eyes flick to Hardy: worried and puzzled. I don't like it at all.

“Did you ever meet the woman who called herself June Saito?”

“Once. Lots of people knew her better.”

“And do you believe she really was Ju-on Koroshi?”

“She fits the description. I never met the original.”

“Does Karasu believe it?”

Thinking now: that strange tone in Kara's voice when she talked about June.

“I could never hurt my sister.”

“I can't say what she thinks. She's paying me to look for this girl, which certainly gives that impression.”

“And have you found anything about what happened to . . . ‘June Saito'?”

“If you want to know that, I'd prefer you talk to Miss Koroshi,” I say—but I'm getting a nasty idea. “Though between you and me, it turns out June was involved with another reporter, an English kid named Christopher Grimsby-Roylott. Maybe romantic, maybe something else. I went to talk to him today, thinking he might know something about where she went. Seems he's also left town unexpectedly. So I wonder if you guys are in the right apartment.”

They share another look.

“And Kara Koroshi had nothing to do with this?”

“Not to my knowledge. Why would she?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Motorcycle accident.”

“And where have you been the past two weeks?”

“Siem Reap. Miss Koroshi was nice enough to pay for my accommodation while I recovered.” Kara and I worked that story out ages ago: if they check, it'll pass. There's another long pause. I finish my beer and set the can on the floor.

Hardy's looking me up and down. “That's how you want it? Fine. But be prepared for us to get very, very interested in your business. And hope we don't find anything interesting.”

“Sure you won't have a beer before you go?”

When they're gone, I call Kara, telling her the same stuff I just told the cops about Number Two. Think about calling Steve as well, but it'll just go right back to the Americans. I have another warm beer, and another, till they're gone. Pick up one of my books and read a few pages, but it's not making any sense.

This town is trouble. Time to start thinking about getting out.

I'm in the middle of that when the cage door swings open.

I start looking for a weapon before I realize it's Vy. She's wearing some piece of couture that might be a shopping bag attached to a fishing net, if they were made from $1,000-a-yard silk. Street mud on her Blahniks. First thing out of her mouth:

“You never even told the police, did you? About the body?”

“Things got a little complicated—the torture, you know—”

She looks at my face and manages to be contemptuous even of that. For a moment she doesn't speak, just looks. Then: “I was thinking about that time you sneaked me out of Le Royal. Remember?”

“That was a laugh.”

“You didn't actually care if I went down. You were just afraid I'd take your dealer with me, and you'd be out in the cold.”

“Sounds like true love.”

“Was it ever anything more?”

I don't know what she wants me to say, so I say nothing.

“You really are a monster. The funny thing is, you even act like one. But people fall for you, again and again. There's no reason for it, is there? You're exactly what you seem.”

“Yes.” Nothing else—she knows it all, she's always known. I'm the worst thing in the world. For a while, that was what she wanted. Now she thinks she's changed, and she wants to change me, too.

She's too icy to even slap me. She reaches into her bag and I tense, expecting a gun. She smiles, pulls out a cigarette, lights it. Stops smiling. “Two weeks. With that woman. And I thought you were dead.” She takes a long drag, blows it out. “Next time, I let you die.” She doesn't wait for me to respond, just turns and walks away.

Maybe she really has changed.

The grass by the palace is still a carnival—Khmers party all night—but the
barang
side is winding down as folks move on to more serious debauchery.

A few stragglers hang around the sidewalk tables at the Edge, but inside there's no one: Joe Strummer singing about death and glory to empty chairs. Channi does a kind of triple take as I walk in, and I feel something in my chest start fluttering. Decide it's the broken ribs.

“Your face—”

“Told you it would get worse.” I sit down.

She hands me a beer, and the Khmer mother in her comes out. “You gone long time! Where . . . have you . . . been?”

“Working.”

“You need a new job,” she snaps, face stern. I smile, she smiles back. This is getting ridiculous.

“Can I have some peanuts?”

She hands me a bowl and I take one, letting the fat salt flakes sting my tongue. “See, I can chew again.”

She takes a peanut from my bowl and sucks on it.

“I want to see you,” I say. “Not here.” She looks at me, waiting, and I pause, wondering what the hell is coming out of my mouth. What will happen next? Apparently, I keep talking. “There's a puppet show in the park tomorrow. For the king's birthday. It starts in the afternoon, before work. Will you go with me?”

She looks at me, appraising. “King birthday is very . . . important.” Why do I get the idea she's been practicing? I raise an eyebrow, and she laughs. “I must celebrate my king birthday. I go with you.”

“Great.”

“I will wait for you without breathing,” she says, in her own language.

For a while after that we don't say anything at all.

They're waiting for me in the morning.

First thing out my door, some middle-aged white guy who's been browsing the tourist shops starts moseying down the street after me. For the moment, I let him.

Head down to the river and harass the boat operators. Number Two's name gets no hits, so I cruise back to his apartment and ask the motodops on the corner about the guy with the long blond hair.

“He go yesterday,” says one, broken smile and ancient Skynyrd T-shirt almost in ribbons. “He in car, late. Night.” This guy is low even for a motodop—just singing for his supper? The others nod along like dashboard dolls. Leaving in a car doesn't sound like Siem Reap—you wouldn't go by road, unless you didn't want to leave a trail.

“Anyone know the driver, hear where they were headed?” That gets nothing. I pass around some bills and move on. If he's running, he's probably left the country by now.

I still need to talk to Steve—and I need to do it without my new friend along. I head back toward my apartment.

Time to see how fast Prik can drive.

The restaurant is huge and empty, a converted house in the old prewar hotel district: two stories, wrought-iron balconies looking over wide, palm-lined streets. It's one of those NGO places that hires land-mine victims and elephantiasis sufferers, and the walls are covered with self-righteous pictures of kitchen staff with massive deformities, which is why no one actually eats here. That, or the ballistic quality of the dumplings.

I'm here for the privacy, not the food.

I've been waiting up top, and when I see the embassy car pull up, I come down the back stairs into the dining room. Steve is sitting facing the front door, talking on his phone. I wait for him to hang up, then sit down.

“Christ! Where'd you spring from?”

“We have a meeting.”

His face gets even longer as realization comes. “You're an Australian master's student doing a paper on law enforcement cooperation?”

“Friend's girlfriend.”

“Fuck.” He stares at the table, lowering his voice in an empty room. “I can't be seen with you. You're a person of interest.”

“Well, you haven't been seen with me yet.” I let that hang a second. “So let's talk fast: What do they want?”

He shakes his head, working himself up to get angry. “I told you to stay out of it.”

“All I want is the girl.”

“Fuck's sake, why? The goodness of your heart?”

“Why not?” I grin.

He doesn't. “You don't have a heart.”

Fine. My turn to lean in and stage-whisper. “Then don't fuck with me. What are they after?”

“Ask them, they don't share with me, I'm just a bushwhackin' cop.”

“Some fucker actually said that, didn't he?”

He starts to nod, then glares again. “Don't get friendly with me, mate. You're fucking poison right now.”

“Don't get caught up in the moment. Remember our long history together. Just for a start, I bet you didn't mention that you'd been having off-the-record meetings to brief Ryu Koroshi's daughter about the details of Australia's effort to fight smuggling in Cambodia.”

I can almost see the steam coming out of his nostrils. His face is beet red. “You ready to go down with me?”

“I'm down already. Like you said. So it doesn't matter to me, does it?” I call over the waitress, order a beer.

Steve sulks. When the girl goes, he's calmed down enough to speak. “You got me in a spot right now, with all these fuckers breathing down my neck. Whole country's falling apart, and the Americans are sending in more black-suit, three-letter wank jobs every day to try and get a piece of it. But they won't be here forever.” Real malice in his voice now. “I do this, you and I are through. And once this shit is over, I will bust your ass for everything I can, until I bust it off of this continent or into a Burmese prison.”

“Good to know I can count on you, Officer. Now tell me what they want.”

He looks enviously at my drink. “The Americans are clueless, and they don't give a crap about Cambodia: they just want Koroshi. There's something big happening back in the States, I don't know, fucking geologic plates realigning, and he's right in the middle of it. The girls are a mystery, no one knows why they're out here. Best guess, it's some kind of feint in a bigger game.”