Cambodia Noir (16 page)

I stagger over to the nearest Internet café, open a dummy chat account, and spend a few minutes checking in with Senn: we've got to pull off the photo shoot for Gabriel tomorrow and can't afford mistakes.

Then I call Steve, tell him I have a possible KA for “June Saito” and give Kara's description. “They might be relatives.”

“I still need a day or so,” he says. “I'll let you know.”

That done, it's time to take another look at Number Two and Barry. I spend the next few hours doing people searches on incredibly slow Internet.

Number Two is interesting. His real name is Christopher Grimsby-Roylott, sad but true, and he spent the first fifteen years of his life in a house near Hyde Park that could pass as a midsized museum. He's from an old, important family; his dad was a columnist for a big Conservative paper. Then things changed: suddenly our Chris is living in a flat in a much less savory area with his mother and younger brother, who've changed their surname back to Rigby. I can't find details about the split, but I doubt it was pretty. He still went to the top schools, presumably with his dad's connections, but there are signs of trouble. He leaves a very good university, presumably not by choice, and finishes his degree at a pretty bad one. Digging deeper, it turns out he has a record: larceny, larceny, drugs, more larceny. I'd guess it goes right back to juvie: few folk take downward mobility lying down. His last UK address was the kind of place where you get yourself home before dark, or you think twice about going home at all.

It's not pretty, but it doesn't set alarms ringing: It's about what I expected from Two. Rich kid takes a bad break, decides to reinvent himself.

Barry is a different story. He's been out here almost as long as me and Gus—I think he was teaching business in Thailand before, but there's not much to track. His last name is Strong, which I always thought smelled of bullshit. Sure enough: between '93 and '95 there's a Barry Strong who looks like our guy bouncing around a few addresses in Northern California. Before that, nothing. I have to go into some fairly esoteric resources to find the story: Sacramento, legal name change. And in a bit of luck, a city paper that's put its archives online. Not whole stories, but I can search headlines and abstracts, which is enough to find Barry Krieger, local business reporter, arrested and tried for burning down his girlfriend's house with her inside it. There was a history of violence—the neighbors all had the local cops on speed dial. The state said Barry beat the woman near to death, then set the place on fire to cover it up. Barry said it was an accident, and the prosecution could never quite prove otherwise.

Light a cigarette, realize my hands are shaking again. For some reason I think of Gus, talking about Bunny:

“I'd rather Hun Sen killed him. At least it would mean he shook things up.”

The shaking is spreading through my whole body, pulse pounding in my temples, and it feels for all the world like there's someone banging on the back of my head, insistent—

Like she's trying to get back in.

I find them at the Bar with No Name, huddled around the lone plastic table: Barry, Number Two, Gus, the new scum. Guzzling Beerlao, listening hopefully for gunfire. It was the first place I looked: June again, talking in my head.

The girls from the brothel next door are out on the curb, smoking in their matching satin pajamas. They giggle and wave at me as I get off the bike.

Twilight now. The rain is done, but the road is still wet; in these back streets, it's just mud and holes. In the distance, neon signs flicker to life as the clubs start up for the evening; darkness breeds between them.

One of the new scum is the girl with the eyebrow ring Ray mentioned; she sees my face and starts the obligatory round of screaming.

“Washing-machine accident,” I say. Gesture to the owner for two beers.

“We were wondering when you'd show,” Barry says. “Tell me you have candy?”

Reach into my pocket, drop a baggie on the table.

“Norwegian,” I say. The good stuff.

“Thank Christ,” says Two.

Tuesday night. Tuesday nights are fucking boring, and this crew will do anything not to be bored.

All it takes is a little push. I don't even need to suggest moving the party to the Heart: the coke and speed I brought are enough to make them want to dance.

At eleven on a Tuesday, the nice NGO workers are already in bed, the gangsters and hookers still sleeping off Saturday. Just us and the usual crew of seven-nighters, aging filth grimly drinking their way through what's left of their second chances. Gus cozies up to the DJ and somehow gets him playing “Blue Monday.” I order apple juice in a whiskey glass and settle in to watch.

By half-past one, things are winding down. Gus has been trying to corner me all night, get me to talk about my chat with Kara. I dodged the topic, but it's going to be a problem. Finally he went home, taking the New Order with him. The interns left fast once the boss was gone. I'm still at the bar; Two and Barry are trying to play pool with their eyes shut. I think Number Two has been avoiding me—but he's been drinking like he's on a clock.

Ray is alone on the dance floor, twisting as Britney begs him to hit her one more time.

Check my watch.
Soon.

Ray's dance moves have been getting more and more extravagant over the past fifteen minutes—then suddenly he's lurching toward the bar, scrabbling at the edge to stay standing.

“Hey, Will,” he gasps. “Wherza toilet at?”

“Same place as always.” He just stares, openmouthed. I point.

He nods and staggers off, swaying way too hard.

“Guys,” I shout, in the general direction of the pool table. Two and Barry look up—follow my eyes to Ray's spindly form as he tries to get the bathroom door open. Barry sighs. We're up and moving in perfect unison.

On any given night, there's a solid chance Ray will get fucked up enough to make trouble. Today I'm on a deadline, so I made sure. The Mickey I slipped him was tiny—just enough to be certain he'd cause a scene before everyone went to bed.

Ray and Barry live together, and night after night Barry hauls Ray's drunk ass home. Which is how I want it tonight: I need to get Number Two alone.

At the bathroom door, we share another look; Two follows me in while Barry stands watch. Inside it's worthy of any Village club, and we find Ray slouched against a graffiti-stained partition, dry-heaving at a broken urinal. One of the old filth, a thick-set former country director with hot-pink lipstick smudges on his ear, is at the next one, looking on in disgust.

“You okay?” I ask Ray.

“Zure-vine. Jus' bit dizzy.” He's struggling with his zipper, and I look at Two: we're not helping. Finally Ray gets it, and I say, “Urinal's there,” but too late, he's pissing right on the filth's leg. The guy recoils, but doesn't know what to do because he's pissing, too, so these guys just stand there with their dicks in their hands, peeing on each other. Number Two giggles: mistake.

“What the fuck,” the filth starts shouting, backing away, repackaging himself. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Zorry.” Ray looks around, all innocence. “Wazzamata?”

“You're fucking dead,” the filth says, and grabs him. Ray's taller, but he's outweighed by a good forty pounds. Number Two starts spluttering.

“Hey,” I say, loud, stepping forward, and everyone stops for a second. “You guys go at it here, you're both gonna be rolling in shit before it's done.” The filth thinks about that for a sec, backs off. “Plus the bouncers may shoot us. Why don't we take this outside?”

The filth gets right in my face: “Fine, let's go.” I motion to the door, and he turns. As soon as he does, I grab him from behind, arm across his neck to cut off the blood flow. He struggles for a second, so I ram his head into the door frame. He goes limp. Leave him lying in the puddle of piss and drag Ray outside.

“Fuck me,” Number Two keeps saying. “Fuck me, that was fucking nuts.”

“Can you get him home?” I ask Barry.

He stops grinning and looks at me, all the expression of a dead fish. For a second I think he's going to argue—but then he nods, sighs. “Sure.” He pulls Ray into a half carry. “My cross to bear. See you in the morning.”

Then it's just me and Number Two.

“We should get out of here,” I say. Head for the bar, where my drink sits, untouched. “Here.” Hand it to Two; reach behind, pull out the well whiskey and a glass, and pour myself a quick shot. We drink. “Your place?”

He nods.

Number Two's flat is only ten minutes away—newish building, half a block from the river. Up the dark stairwell. Two sways as he works his way through the locks. Cracks the door, and there's a second I worry he's not going to invite me in.

“Cup of tea?” I say.

“Yeah, sure.”

Got to love the English.

His apartment is big, dark, and scattered with debris: stacks of work notes, books, fake DVDs from the Russian market. A hundred lighters, two on every available surface. Beat-up couches, beat-up coffee table, beat-up TV.

“Here.” I toss the rest of the weed from last weekend on the table. “See if you can make a spliff without drooling on yourself. I'll get the drinks.”

“Brilliant.”

In the kitchen, I make tea and pour us whiskeys. I work on his a bit.

When I come back, he's putting the finishing touches on a joint that must be six inches long.

“Have you been in a lot of fights?” he asks.

“Too many.”

“Shit. I've never been in a fight.”

“I'm not going to hit you.” It's automatic now with drunk twentysomethings: they always ask. There was some movie that was big a few years back.

Two giggles. Between the drugs and the booze and the low-level shock of the scuffle in the bathroom, he's pushed whatever was bothering him back into the depths of his mind. We're just mates again.

I check my watch as he takes his first sip; start counting. Light the joint, draw, pass it over.

I don't know what to talk about, so I talk about Vy. Not that there's much to say, but people are less suspicious when they think you're baring your soul. Start running through a list of stock stories, wondering which might encourage confession.

“How do you do it?” Two asks, at last.

“Do what?”

“You know.”

I don't. He goes on, “You should hear the stuff they say about you. You are—fuck. You have done drugs and fucked women halfway across Asia. It just—” A gesture: something vanishing into air. “And Viola—those stories. How many bloody arrests, overdoses—I heard she shot up with the Russian ambassador in her hotel room and he died right there, and you had to come get her out before the cops came.”

“Who told you that? That's bullshit.”

“Most people, sane people, they want to off themselves after ten minutes with Vy. You spent three years with her. How?” I don't understand the question. He tries again: “The way it gets out here, dunnit . . . y'know? Dunnit tear you up?”

Finally, I realize: he
wants
to tell me what he knows. It's beating a hole in his brain, and he thinks I'm the guy to fix it. To save him.

I lean in, hand on his arm:
Hey, I'm your buddy.
“What's eating you?”

For a second I think he's going to tell me—but then his face closes, he shakes his head. His eyes talk for him: he's afraid.

His drink is three-quarters gone. Check my watch: twenty minutes already.

“You can tell me. Promise I've done worse.”
How do you know what you've done?

Two laughs. “Who died and made you Mr. Sensitive?” Shakes his head. “No, you got the right idea.” Raises his glass: “Here's to not caring.” We toast.

Our glasses slam on the table, empty.

“I'm serious. You can talk to me.”

“I can't . . . talk to anybody.”

“I'll understand.”

“You would.” His voice is getting thick, unsteady. “But it's no good, I . . . I feel funny.”

“Good weed.”

“Yeah.” He laughs, then looks confused. Goes for his empty glass, almost knocking it off the table. Laughs as he catches it.

It has to be now.

“You're worried about June, aren't you?” He's not surprised—just shakes his head. “You were worried yesterday, when you heard she hadn't gone home.”

“No way. She went home . . . she told me so.”

“When?”

“After she left. She . . . she told me.”

“Told you how?”

He looks at me now, finger pointing; his eyes filmed with booze and suspicion. “Why are you asking? Did
he
send you?”

“Nobody sent me, mate. I just want to know what happened.” He's shaking his head now, like a two-year-old on a tantrum. “Who is
he
? You knew someone who was going to hurt June. Who was it?”

“No . . . Not . . . Not her.”

“Just tell me, I can handle them—”

Interrupted by his laugh: “That's what I said. You think you can . . . but you can't.”

I'm losing him now, and my temper as well. Grab his shoulders: “Goddamnit, Chris, she's gone, she's fucking gone, and you know why.” My voice sounds raw in my own ears; I'm screaming or whispering, I can't tell.

He shakes his head.

“Who was it? Was it Barry? Just tell me, was it fucking Barry?”

Two stares at me, wide-eyed, and in that look is as much despair as I've seen in one place. Then he turns, vomits across the coffee table, and passes out.

Rohypnol: it can make you nauseous.

I light a cigarette and think about the tedious business of cleaning up. Two is highly unlikely to remember the last half hour—but if he wakes and things are hinky, he's going to ask questions. He's got to come to in the morning with a clear narrative: we came back, we smoked up, we drank. He was a mess, he passed out watching telly. Two loves his TV shows—there's hundreds of DVDs here. I pick up one that looks well thumbed, put it in the player, let it run while I mop up his vomit. If he asks, I'll describe him putting it on.