“It’s just a little shooting from near the market. The military’s probably put up a checkpoint,” said Scott. “And some asshole forgot to stop. You have to stop for them. You can’t just keep on going or they get pissed off. The soldiers want cigarettes or cash. It seems reasonable. The government doesn’t pay them. The Americans won’t pay them because they don’t like their politics. So they have to pay themselves. It seems to work out all right. Soldiers shoot people who don’t pay. Who is going to mourn a cheap Charlie? Besides they don’t have to shoot all that many before the word gets out.”
A couple of the Vietnamese whores crept beside Calvino and bent over the balcony, straining to locate the source of the gunfire. But most of the whores stayed back, pressing against the wall; they wanted as much distance as possible between themselves and the exposure of being in the open near the edge of the balcony. Scott explained that most of the girls worked day jobs in the local beauty shops, changing into their party dress and whoring by night. They were what Scott called the Saigon bus girls. He explained how they were afraid at night, and they had every reason to be scared. The Khmer Rouge had machine-gunned men, women, and children, killing scores of Vietnamese some months earlier. A great hatred of the Vietnamese had been whipped up during the election. Killing Vietnamese was socially acceptable behavior among a lot of Khmers. One of the few activities which seemed to unify the populace. Killing had a different meaning, a different history but roughly the same purpose in Cambodia. To create terror and submission, nothing ever worked better than summary executions.
“You think I can get a beer?” Scott shouted at one of the girls inside the door. She disappeared and a moment later returned with a Tiger beer.
“They’re really not bad people,” said Scott. “I kind of like the Vietnamese. The whores are like us, Calvino. Outsiders. They don’t fit in. They hang around, do their job, and try to find some decency in their lives. It’s not their fault the Americans fucked up their country. It’s not the Cambodians’ fault the Americans dropped more bombs on Cambodia than were dropped during World War II. Just because you say a war ends doesn’t mean it ends.”
Calvino figured out in his head that in bargirl years Richard Scott must have been well over one-hundred-sixty years old. Long enough for a heart to go hard, black, and cold.
Across the street from the Lido were crumbling buildings—not buildings in the conventional sense but concrete shells. Calvino felt the anger rising inside. Scott’s one-track condemnation of America masked some deeper pain or hostility. Blaming America was an easy way out for problems; it meant there was no more work or thinking to do about trouble. Like bashing Jews, a ready-made audience existed for this kind of hatred. With the blood and dirt on American hands, why bother, it was easier to sit on a balcony, drink beer, and bitch about how the Yanks had fucked everything up. He started to count what looked like bullet holes, controlling his anger against Scott. The buildings were so run down the holes could have been caused by anything. The condition of the buildings showed that human beings were prepared to live in a city like animals. These were animal holding pens; nests with brick walls; structures so ugly, flat, and squat they seemed broken. A four-story hovel, which housed people with a shattered history. Suffering and misery domes built by a tribe that tried to kill itself.
On the ground floor the metal gate was pulled tight with a large Yale lock. Peeling paint, the windows splotched and stained, making one feel the damp ache of those inside. There were no lights in the windows; not even a candle. The rooms looked abandoned; the building looked as if it contained no living thing. Calvino could imagine the Khmer Rouge taking people out of the rooms, and loading them into trucks. They never came back. The building waited for new occupants.
Below on the street it was business as usual. The Lido motorcycles pulled up with whores and customers. A moment later, another driver, whore and customer seated on the back of a Honda 50cc, disappeared out of sight down the flooded street. Several UNTAC Civ Pol vehicles were parked opposite the Lido. An off-duty cop—who looked Eastern European—loaded two whores, who were drinking beer, into the front seat of an UNTAC Land Cruiser and drove away. Then Calvino saw John Shaw, the Irish cop, walk alone across the street, keys in his hand, climb into his Land Cruiser, and follow after the first vehicle.
“You didn’t happen to see Fat Stuart here with Mike Hatch?” asked Calvino, turning back from the railing. There wasn’t an immediate reply, so Calvino rephrased the question, “Have you seen Hatch around lately?”
Scott frowned, rubbing the side of his face. He had a nervous condition that made his eye and cheek twitch whenever he felt tension coming on hard. Hatch’s name had twisted some of the nerves.
“I’ve been waiting for him to come around. Let’s see, it’s been a couple of weeks. We have some business plans,” said Scott. “And these things take time to organize.”
“What kind of business?” asked Calvino, pulling up a chair directly opposite Scott.
“That’s kinda personal, isn’t it?” The muscles in his face pulsated, and Scott gulped beer from the can.
“I’m not asking for trade secrets, Scott. And I’m not working for the US Government if that’s what you’re worried about.” Calvino could see the approach wasn’t working. He pulled out his wallet and showed Scott a check payable to Mike Hatch in the amount of forty-five thousand dollars. It was dark on the balcony. And Scott used his cigarette lighter to read the check. “I’m looking to deliver this to Hatch.”
“When did you become an investment banker?” Scott asked.
“After Hatch went into the gun business,” said Calvino. Scott didn’t much like this answer, and he quickly pushed the Vietnamese whore off his lap and leaned forward in his chair.
“Who said Hatch was in the gun business? Patten? Because if he did, he’s a lying sonofabitch.” He looked Calvino straight in the eye with a look which approached genuine surprise. His gray eyes had betrayed his claim that he didn’t know the game Patten was playing. He handed back the check.
Calvino remained silent as he folded the check and put it back in his wallet. Several of the Vietnamese girls watched over his shoulder. There was a constant stream of girls circling from the dance floor to the balcony. Some UNTAC personnel in civilian clothes sat with girls at the opposite end of the balcony.
“Our business venture is in Vietnam. We are putting together the deal of a lifetime. We are planning yuppie treks down Highway One. Do you know how many American yuppies would pay through the nose to have someone lead them down Highway One? Thousands and thousands of Americans who heard something about the war. This is their chance to follow in Charlie’s footsteps. It can’t miss. Forget about guns. The money is in tourism. Mike and I are planning the first Highway One Marathon. We are working on a cable-TV deal. Report- ers from all over the world will come to cover the marathon. Guns! Who in the fuck cares about guns? Except gun-crazy Americans. You people are obsessed with guns. You’re all armed to the teeth. In England we don’t really like guns, and we don’t like people carrying them around in public. And that includes the police.”
The scheme sounded like one Scott would be interested in doing. He was a jogger. He loved Vietnamese women. He was finished with Bangkok and this was his opportunity to combine his avocation, drinking, and whoring and to get paid at the same time. It had the ring of truth. What didn’t figure into the equation was what his real connection was with Mike Hatch. He seemed to be covering up for Hatch, holding back information about Hatch’s whereabouts. If Scott wouldn’t tell him the truth, then Calvino thought there was an outside chance one of the Lido girls was serving Hatch and for the right price would take him directly to his room.
“Which of these girls did Fat Stuart take?” asked Calvino. The question caught Scott off guard and made him laugh unexpectedly, making beer shoot out of his nose.
“The one who when she turns to the side is so flat she disappears.”
“No, seriously.”
&
nbsp; Scott wiped his nose and looked around the balcony for a couple of minutes. The girl he had pushed off his lap crawled back on, dangling her legs on his bare legs. “I love it when they do that,” he said.
Calvino took out the photograph of Fat Stuart’s dead face and showed it to the girl. He held Scott’s lighter close to the photograph. He asked her if she recognized him. There was no reply.
“The girls only speak Vietnamese. And a little French,” said Scott. He then translated the question into Vietnamese, and the girl stared hard, and finally pointed at one of the girls in a red mini-skirt and white blouse who sat with the off-duty UNTAC personnel at the far end of the balcony. Her blouse was half-unbuttoned and she was necking with one of the men who was running his hand up and down her leg. “She says the shy one over there went with Fat Stuart.”
“When?” asked Calvino.
“Light years ago,” replied Scott. “In bargirl time?” asked Calvino.
“In Lido time. Here six days is one year. This one here is about a thousand years old. But looks pretty good for her age.”
“Any other girls go with Fat Stuart?”
Scott and the girl on his lap spoke in Vietnamese for about a minute. “Apparently not. This girl specializes in rather large men. Though Fat Stuart was a little big even by her standards.”
Calvino got up and walked over to where the girl sat, with her head back, showing a long, slender throat. He tapped the UNTAC soldier on the shoulder. “I don’t want any trouble. I just want to ask your girl a few questions. It will only take a couple of minutes.” He held his hands palms up as a gesture of peace. But it was a wasted effort. The soldier’s eyes looked from Calvino to the girl, and then he came off the chair with his fists flying. He had been drinking and that made his reaction time a couple of ticks too slow. He threw a couple of useless fatman’s wind makers, missing Calvino, who stepped to one side. Calvino caught him with a heavy right into his midsection, and the fight immediately left him. The soldier grabbed the railing, struggling to get to his feet, and instead leaned his head over the side and vomited beer. Once again the motorcycle drivers below ducked for cover; they were having one very bad night. Calvino pulled the girl over to where Scott was sitting.
“That won’t make you popular with the motorcycle taxi drivers. They hate it when foreigners vomit on their heads.”
“Ask this girl if she knows Mike Hatch.”
Scott asked her, and nodded to Calvino. “Of course, she could be lying. But Mike knows a lot of Lido girls, so she might be telling the truth.”
“Ask her if she knows where Mike lives.”
Scott smiled. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”
He asked the girl, and she said she knew where Mike Hatch lived and it was not far from the bar. All she wanted was some money for her time and effort. That seemed like a fair deal.
It was after midnight when Calvino and the girl walked down the tattered red carpeted staircase and into the street where some of the drivers were cursing the vomit and combing their hair with plastic combs. Their faces looked like the nerve endings had been cut. Like they didn’t feel much of anything. And they didn’t miss the pain.
FIVE
CHECKPOINT CHARLIE
TEN FEET FROM the bottom of the stairs Calvino was surrounded by motorcycle taxi drivers, all demanding the right to take him and the Vietnamese whore to his hotel. He worked his way through the crowd until he reached the curb. It was raining again. Above him, standing on the balcony of the Lido, Scott leaned forward on his elbows on the railing. Scott saluted him by holding up the can of Tiger beer. Calvino felt the rain on his face as he looked up at Scott and at a half-dozen Vietnamese whores staring down.
“If you find Hatch, tell him . . . Oh, fuck, just tell him if he’s screwing with me, I’m prepared to do the marathon on my own. I can still run pretty good.”
More automatic gunfire tore through the gentle rain, coming from the direction of the checkpoint near Central Market. All heads ducked in a uniform bow as some rounds flew over. Drivers and girls at street level scattered, several dropping down on their knees behind an UNTAC vehicle. This was as close as they might come to UN protection. Looking down the street it was easy to pick out the tracer rounds from the AK47s—red-hot flashes every five or six rounds as the tracer streaked through the darkness, driving like fire through the rain. At the end of the street, he saw the muzzle flash. Calvino and the girl were in the open with no place to run or hide. Her name was Thu and like most of the other girls she was Vietnamese. She instinctively squatted Asia style until her head was the same level as her knees. They had picked a bad place for shelter. They crouched in the mud. She covered her ears again with both hands, her eyes squeezed shut. Calvino sank down beside her, feeling wet mud soaking through his trousers. Putting an arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close to his body and leaned over her. The smell of the Lido would always be one of mud, beer and cheap perfume. And the sound of gunfire.
“It’s okay, you don’t want to go. You stay at the Lido,” he said.
She shook her head.
“I go with you,” she said. Once she no longer had Scott to translate from English into Vietnamese, she displayed that her grasp of the English language was far better than she had let on.
Her hands were shaking. She clamped them around her ears and closed her eyes as if she thought that if she didn’t hear or see what was happening somehow it would go away.
“Take her,” shouted Scott, who had not moved from the balcony. “These girls were born to the sound of gunfire. Funny that it still scares them.” But it did scare them. Scott was talking about himself; he was someone who seemed to court death, but so far death had taken other bridegrooms.
One of the motorcycle taxi drivers who wore the standard uniform of plastic sandals, baggy pants, and cotton shirt, jumped on his bike, rammed one foot down on the starter, and a blue line of smoke shot out of the exhaust. He turned and gestured for Calvino and Thu to make a run for it. Before Calvino could say anything the girl sprinted for the bike. She made a running jump and landed on the back, wrapping her arms around the driver’s waist. The driver revved the engine.
“Come, mister,” he shouted.
Calvino ran to the motorcycle, and edged himself onto the small space left on the saddle behind her. She turned around and put her head against his chest for a second. He balanced himself as the bike left the curb. Then the wind and rain was in their faces. Thu had given every indication that she knew the routine. The Honda 50cc sped off down the flooded street, trailing a stream of water that spattered Calvino from the back. Two hundred meters from the Lido, they came to an unlit intersection and instead of going through, the motorcycle driver without any warning made a sharp left, shifting gears and gathering speed. After a minute the AK47 fire was distant; small cracks of sound that could have been anything. Calvino felt Thu relax against his body. She looked back and smiled, giving him a thumbs-up signal. She was happy for the first time since they had walked out of the Lido.
After midnight in Phnom Penh the side streets were totally deserted. In every direction there wasn’t another soul; not a light from the street or the buildings. Nothing else moved except the motorcycle. A strange, uneasy feeling overcame Calvino that all other movement had stopped. This wasn’t Bangkok where the action filled all spaces. Here it occurred to him that there were good reasons for the empty streets. If he had taken the time to ask. There hadn’t been time. What he would have been told was pretty much what Calvino figured out five minutes ride away from the Lido: it was extremely dangerous to be out in the open late at night.
Bandits prowled the streets. In Phnom Penh only sixteen official checkpoints were set up, and they were easy enough to elude. The illegal ones could be anywhere and at any time. No one seriously believed that robbery and murder was a social problem that the local police could control. The local police were a big part of the crime problem and no one had come up with any solution of how criminals in uniform we
re going to arrest themselves. Everyone on the street was at risk. No one ventured into the streets. Only Calvino had just arrived in Phnom Penh and he had failed to understand what happened at night. After ten minutes it became clear the driver didn’t know where he was heading. He drove in a direct line down the center of the street, passing rows and rows of dark buildings. Total silence. The gunfire was long ago swallowed up in the blackness. Only the sound of the Honda 50cc engine struck against the wall of night. Not even a candle illuminated a window. The lack of streetlights made the journey surreal, like being sucked into a black hole from which no light or life could escape. Calvino could imagine Phnom Penh after the Khmer Rouge emptied the city in 1975, throwing the entire population into the countryside. That was Year Zero. Rats starved in the streets. People around the world thought of Harlem and Brooklyn having a monopoly on mean, angry, dangerous streets; but at least these boroughs had cars, people, movement, lights and police cars on patrol. People were on the run but you could see them; you could see some attempt to provide police protection. But in Phnom Penh after midnight, the three of them were alone, tossed into a vast wet, brown graveyard. The only source of light was the Honda headlamps; its beam picked up the sea of muddy water.
“You did tell him the address?” asked Calvino.
Thu didn’t understand. He repeated the question. “Did you tell him Mike Hatch’s address?”
This was when it happened. The breakdown in communication. Suddenly Thu didn’t know Mike Hatch or the meaning of address. Paranoia—true fear of being stabbed in the back—is finding yourself stranded in the middle of a dark street in Phnom Penh, speaking no Khmer or Vietnamese and with two people who suddenly understood no English. This was the definition of being fucked in the Third World. He gestured for the driver to stop, and the Khmer obeyed by braking hard in the middle of the street—at a dip where the water came level with the engine of the motorcycle. The driver and Thu stared at him, waiting for him to tell them what came next. They might have waited for hours, for in Phnom Penh a people as badly violated as these had patience for waiting.
Zero Hour in Phnom Pehn Page 9
