“What’d he say?” asked Calvino.
“He said that Nuth in T-3,” said the police officer with a grin.
“Small world, isn’t it?” said Shaw.
“It keeps getting smaller all the time,” said Pratt.
FIFTEEN
T-3 PRISON
RICHARD SCOTT WAITED outside the gate of the municipal police headquarters, his hands nervously clutched inside his jogging shorts pockets. He had something pressing on his mind as three Khmer men approached him in the driveway. They were laughing and belching. The smell of half-cooked dog meat was carried on their breath. Or were the plates a few meters away on the street the source of the smelled carried on a light wind? He couldn’t be certain. The smell made him gag. He had been watching the waitress who worked the wooden tables near the street. He tried to concentrate on her sexuality as if this would dull the horrible smell. He undressed her in his mind. When that didn’t work, he made a mental list of all the things he liked about working girls. In Washington Square, he remembered, someone once said, “When you break off with Noi, she never says that her lawyer will call your lawyer. She might try and kill you but she would never think of suing you.” But none of the exercises in sexual concentration were sufficient to block the message contained in the roasted dog scooped onto plates. The sickly stink of flesh had half-doubled him over, clutching his stomach into knots.
The smell caused a simple emotional reaction, he told himself. Each time he inhaled the rough scent of cooked dog, he was hurled back to the gagging stench of slaughter which lingered inside Mike Hatch’s room. His brain kept translating the smell of cooked dog into a single image—Hatch strung up and quartered like a Great Dane ready for the spit. How could anyone eat dog, he asked himself. Then he repeated to himself that it was only a dog. But the image of Hatch refused to be expelled. He spotted Calvino and Pratt as they emerged from the jailhouse; behind the police headquarters walking with Shaw, he waved and ran over like a man who was being chased by demons. And of course in a way he was such a man.
“I thought you had disappeared,” he said. “Like a lot of people in Phnom Penh. They are here one moment, and the next . . . who knows? Cooking over a vendor’s fire.”
“You ever see Mike Hatch handling an expensive-looking necklace?” Those were the first words out of Calvino.
“Should I have seen a necklace? I know he had pierced ears and diamond earrings. But a necklace? I never knew he was into that sort of thing, you know. But it is obvious there were a number of things that I didn’t get quite right about Mike. Who knows what he wore in private?”
Calvino ignored the joke and stared hard at him, making Scott blink.
“A necklace,” repeated Calvino.
“Don’t recall a necklace or a bracelet for that matter. But he was a dresser. Now that he’s dead, I’m being told he was a cross-dresser as well.”
“You ever hear of due diligence? It means finding out whether your prospective partner is an asshole,” said Calvino.
Scott wasn’t paying close attention. Hatch was dead and that was closure. All he cared about was staying alive.
“Police everywhere,” said Scott.
“And at police headquarters who is asking the questions? Why, I ask myself, does an American private eye ask me about a necklace?”
“Because he’s a curious man,” said Shaw.
“He may be. But then curiosity killed the cat,” said Scott.
“And the dog, and maybe Hatch, Patten, and Fat Stuart. And if I were you, I might be asking myself if I could be next, Richard,” said Calvino.
“After all, most of your business partners are dead.”
Scott didn’t much like the sound of Calvino’s observation and he was trying to determine if it was intended as a personal threat to his well-being. Scott wrinkled his nose and sighed like he had finished last in a sprint that he had expected to win.
“Mike and I never exchanged jewelry, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.
Pratt had watched what was taking place between Scott and Calvino, trying to interpret each slight movement in the facial expressions, the variation in tone of voice, the way Scott held himself—the words spoken by Scott were only a small part of the total package. A Thai processed information in stereo, he thought. Westerners usually placed far too much importance on the words themselves. He had observed Calvino’s inter- rogation. One question was in Pratt’s mind—why had Scott sought them out? Was it because he was scared? Or was it for some other reason? Finally he asked his question.
“No one ever told you that Fat Stuart and Mike Hatch had a side deal?”
“No one had to tell me,” said Scott. “Of course, I suspected that they had some separate business. Beats me what it was. But it had nothing to do with me.” Pratt picked out a tone which sounded a little hurt, as if Scott had resented being left out of a deal. “So I left it alone,” continued Scott. “That seemed sensible enough. One shouldn’t pry. It could get you in trouble, don’t you think?”
“Or killed,” said Calvino.
Under the circumstances it was more than sensible; it was what had saved his life—a total lack of curiosity and involvement in their side deal. Suddenly the three men standing opposite Scott lost interest in him. He felt it directly, immediately.
“Did I say something wrong?” asked Scott. “No, you’ve done well,” said Calvino.
“What’s this about a necklace?” asked Scott.
“Forget it,” said Shaw.
“Memory is not a healthy quality in Cambodia. After all the Khmers forgot about Angkor Wat for nearly six hundred years. Maybe you are right,” said Scott.
“Why did you come here?” asked Pratt. A smile crossed Scott’s face.
“That’s the first question I thought you would ask.”
“And the answer?” asked Shaw.
Calvino exchanged a glance with Pratt.
“Because I had something to tell you about Nuth.”
Everyone suddenly became intense and silent. Scott liked that control of the situation and the people in it, and immediately recognized that he had said the right thing at the right time.
“Tell us about him,” said Pratt.
They walked back to the wooden tables and found an empty one. The waitress took their drink orders but no one ordered the dog special. Scott kept them waiting until the drinks arrived, drinking half of a Tiger beer straight out of the bottle.
“I had a thing with his sister,” said Scott. “She runs a stall out at the Russian market. She has a burning desire to learn languages. I signed on to help her with English. Not that I was the first volunteer and, needless to say, I won’t be the last. You see she keeps this book, divides things up by country.”
He finished the beer and ordered another one. “Things started to get a little serious. Beyond teacher and student relations.”
“Relations?” asked Shaw.
“I fucked her a few times,” said Scott, tipping back the fresh Tiger beer. “And suddenly she pulled a stunt on me. She wanted me to marry her. To take her out of Cambodia. Well, I said that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Along the way, I had some pictures taken of us. I gave her copies. I even met her younger brother, Nuth.”
“Cousin?” asked Pratt.
“Cousin, brother, father,” said Scott. “The blood lines are a little confused in this country. The point is, when I tried to break off with her was about the time that I had to clear Mike’s Harley out of customs. Nuth decided to take a little personal revenge. That was stupid. He was a thoroughly stupid man. Because everything had been arranged in advance. He couldn’t shake me down. I knew that. Why didn’t he? It is his country. He should have known. Instead, he went straight at me. Right in my face. And I did the only sensible thing. I made a single phone call. It was a number that Mike had given me should I have any problems. I told him that I wouldn’t go out to the airport unless I had some back-up. I might be Welsh but I’m not totally stupid. I thought long bef
ore making that phone call. I knew once I did that Nuth would have a major problem. I told him so. I warned him. He wanted money because I had fucked his sister. I tried to explain that I taught her English. He didn’t care. I had disgraced her and the family. She wanted a husband. Let’s say things got a little tense. I phoned and not long after, Nuth disappeared. I saw him handcuffed and looking slightly pissed off. More scared than pissed off. I had no doubt he wanted to kill me. You fuck someone’s sister and before you know it they want to axe you with a meat cleaver.”
“You can identify him?” asked Calvino.
Scott smiled. “Of course I can. That’s why I’m here. John said you were looking for him.”
Calvino and Pratt both looked at Shaw.
“I think we should invite Richard along to T-3,” said Shaw. “He might prove himself useful after all.”
“I have his picture, if that’s any help,” said Scott, taking a photograph out of his jogging shorts and laying it on the table. In the picture were Scott, Sitha, the woman from the Russian market, and a cocoa-colored Khmer male. That was Nuth. Everyone was smiling for the camera. It was recorded in the way the past is laid down in photo-history snapshots—smiles and promises of happiness and immortality. The future was never captured in a photograph but everyone, nonetheless, knew what images to expect—missing in action, despair, and fear of death.
******
HER bare ankles, sunburnt skin peeling off the back above the heels, were hooked and her head bent down over the laptop computer on her lap. At the podium an UNTAC briefing official in white shirt and blue tie looked down at his notes, reading like a schoolteacher about meetings between several political factions. After he finished he asked for questions and hands shot into the air. He fielded a question about the com- mittee responsible for drafting a new Cambodian constitution. Halfway through the reply, Calvino walked up the marble stairs of the pavilion of UNTAC headquarters. He looked over the reporters who listened to all these generalities about law; they were smooth, untarnished statements almost totally disconnected from Cambodia in the streets of Phnom Penh or in the provinces. Calvino spotted her as she looked up from her computer. He walked over, lowering himself down next to Carole Summerhill-Jones, foreign correspondent for the San Francisco Chronicle.
She glanced at him but didn’t interrupt her keystroke on the computer. Her face was intense, like a student taking down what was going to be in the final examination. Click, clicky, click. Keyboard racket competed with the English-accented voice of the UNTAC official. He tried to imagine how the world’s news interface between San Francisco and Phnom Penh depended on people like her. In twenty hours, people in San Francisco would read her story over a morning cup of coffee and think how the UN had brought law, constitutions, and Western values into the killing fields, had restored law and order, and peace would return to the countryside. The fact this was absolute bullshit didn’t stop Carole typing it into her computer and filing the story. She had once told him that no correspondent was ever paid for telling the news the way it really was. There was no market for reality—what was big was the spin.
“Your typing skills are impressive,” Calvino said.
“Meaning my other skills are not?” she asked without missing a beat.
“How would you like a real story? A scoop.”
“Every time you say the word ‘scoop’ why is it I think of the words ‘dog shit’?” she asked.
“Maybe you had a bad experience with early toilet training,” he said.
“Aren’t you going to say anything about the other night?”
“I’ll never forget your pearls,” he replied.
“That’s all?”
“The raincoat you slipped on my gun.”
“I mean an apology for stuffing money in my handbag. God, I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
“You mean it wasn’t enough?”
“Calvino, do yourself a favor. Don’t ever go back to the States. You wouldn’t last a day.”
“How about a night?”
She smiled one of her tight-lipped grins.
He looked over her shoulder and read what she had written on the screen. He smelled her perfume; the same she had worn in his room and he wished for a moment that they were back at his hotel. Every other sentence was about human rights and he was thinking about sex. Calvino leaned back and listened to the official field another question. This time about land mine clearing in the provinces.
“How many casualties are being reported from landmines?”
“Randy, can I get back to you on that figure?”
“Okay, but how much progress has been made in clearing mines and what about the UNTAC commitment to leave Cambodia mine-free before the pullout?”
The UNTAC official looked embarrassed. “Listen to this bullshit,” whispered Carole.
“Our mandate was to guarantee free elections. Once the Cambodian people choose their own elected representatives, they can deal with a number of urgent and pressing problems. That includes mine-clearing. UNTAC is fulfilling its role to assist the Cambodian authorities but ultimately we lack the manpower and resources to rid Cambodia of this legacy.”
“Wanna go out to T-3?” asked Calvino.
“Can you believe this guy used to be a correspondent?” asked Carole.
“He’s giving you a hand-job,” said Calvino.
“I like hand-jobs. At least it gives some pleasure. But this isn’t even a dry hump.”
“I’m ready when you’re ready,” he said.
She closed down the computer, snapped the screen shut. “I’m always ready. Why not now?”
“I’m talking about T-3.”
She stared at him for a moment. “There’s something you’re not telling me or am I to believe you had nothing better to do today?” she asked.
“So long as you get the exclusive, what do you care?”
This assumed she wanted the story. He had issued a challenge. A couple of possibilities crossed his mind. She was no more a foreign correspondent than he was, and she was connected with the people looking for the Saudi jewelry. Or she was for real but didn’t want to admit that she was afraid to go into T-3. What kind of guarantee did any correspondent get in a place like Phnom Penh? The simple answer was none.
“Let’s go, Calvino,” she said, jumping down from the ledge, preparing to skip down the stone steps and lead the way.
He was hoping that would be her answer. But as they walked out of the pavilion, she thought about the night they had spent together, wondering if he would ever deliver on the promised T-3 scoop. Now she was walking beside him, she was nervous about breaking away from the briefing and getting in a far more dangerous bed than the one which Calvino occupied at the Monorom Hotel. He was using her—that much she knew from basic front-line gut instinct, but she could handle that. She had walked the narrow rim of expediency before without falling off. She struggled with herself. He walked fast and she fell a step behind. Should she stay? She had promised herself not to get in over her head. Calvino was the kind of guy who was dangerous. Someone whose judgment she thought might be better in bed than in a Third World prison closed to outsiders.
Calvino stopped and looked back at her at the top of the steps.
“Have you changed your mind? Sitting here and taking notes is a no-risk, right? Why put yourself on the line?”
She took a deep breath, controlling her anger. She tried counting to ten like her father had taught her as a child; but she never got past four or five before she exploded. She made it to three with Calvino before she turned on him.
“You think because I’m a woman that I’m afraid, right? Men are tough and brave. Women should stay in their place. I got a message for you from home, Vincent. It ain’t like that anymore. Women aren’t afraid.”
“I am afraid most of the time,” he said as she came down the steps carrying her laptop, and walked along the pavement. “But then, I’ve always thought that fear was my best friend. She has kept me al
ive.”
“Fear’s a woman?”
“Yeah, because she knows the true nature of man.” Carole smiled.
“You’re a slick bastard.”
******
SHAW sat behind the wheel of the Land Cruiser, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He had double-parked opposite the canteen. Pratt looked through the window at about a dozen soldiers who sat drinking coffee and eating donuts, hamburgers, and pancakes. He wondered how they could eat such food. How such abundant amounts of food were on the table before them while the country they had come to keep the peace in had many people with little or nothing to eat. His thought was broken as Shaw tapped his shoulder and then waved as Calvino came into view.
“Shaw is the man who’s getting us inside,” said Calvino as they approached the Land Cruiser.
She glanced at him, locking her eyes. “No, you don’t have to fuck him.”
Zero Hour in Phnom Pehn Page 27
