Cambodia Noir (11 page)

The Khmer reporters have their own room, side by side with the main one. No desks in there, just old couches melting into the floor. TV in the corner, for the fights. When I come in, a couple of the young guys are sipping Cokes and watching MMA—Australian, looks like. I throw myself on the floor next to them and start rolling a joint.

One glares at me; think his name is Yun. “Come on, man. We get trouble for your shit.”

“Sorry.” I stuff the result in my pocket. The Khmers don't like trouble—they're the opposite of the foreigners. No one this side of the wall is on a mission from God. I light a cigarette instead, letting it burn away the sour, sticky taste in my mouth. The fat fighter gets the other one in an armlock, and the guys next to me start shouting in the tones of men with money at stake.

The new scum hate this room. They stick their faces around the door, all they see is lazy natives lounging in the shade. Half the time they get racist; the other half, they lecture Gus about it: How are the Khmer reporters supposed to
build capacity
if they spend all their time sitting around, and then
colonialism, imperialism,
some more -isms.

I got most of my Khmer in here: endless hours listening to them shout back at the television, trade sources, argue over politics. These guys are old pros. They see the foreigners come and go, but they stay. They know what lines they can't cross, and don't ask questions that won't get answers. Why should they? Even a guy like Khieu, who speaks mostly fine English and can tell you what the cops are doing an hour before they know themselves—he's still going nowhere. He might string for AP or Reuters, but he'll never get hired. He'll never make it to the foreign desk at the
Times
. He thinks his job's important, but he plays it safe.

The highest honor Cambodian journalism offers is a bullet in the head.

Light another cigarette, ask Yun if he knew June.

He shrugs.

Did he ever work with her?

Shrug.

He'll never ask why I wanted to know.

The wrestlers get timed out, and the announcer lines up a new match: some skinny Canadian kickboxer is taking on one of those big Brazilian grapplers. This should be good.

Half an hour later, Khieu rolls in. He's been at the Interior Ministry, getting jerked around, and doesn't want to go over two months ago's news.

“Heroin,” he says, like he's talking about what he had for breakfast. “A lot, twenty kilo. Australians find it on a ship from Sihanoukville. They make investigation. The judge find evidence, he find papers, for shipping, sign by customs men in Sihanoukville, so he arrest. Three days, they in jail. Then Hun Sen let them go. Everyone very upset, the human rights very upset—they say this show our judges not independent.” Khieu gives a little snort:
Like that's news.
“Nothing else. I think they still looking.”

“Did the thing in Sydney lead to the raid on Friday?”

“Police not say. All we know is they still question the people they took at that house, the army people. Say more arrests soon.”

“What about June Saito?”

“What about?”

“She worked on the Sydney story with you. Know who she talked to?”

“United Nations, mostly, I think.”

“Anything strange happen?”

“What strange?”

I switch to Khmer. “Did June talk to anyone who could be dangerous?”

“The United Nations is very dangerous for my country.” He smirks. It's the “crazy
barang
” look, the one they save for wacky newcomers with no idea where they are.

I'm getting desperate. “When she was working with you, maybe she found something out? Something someone didn't want her to talk about?” It sounds just as silly in Khmer.

Khieu's face has gone dark: anger brewing in him now, anger and something else— “Come on,” he says, in English, then switches back. “You know how things are. There are no secrets. Suppose you found out Hun Sen was dealing drugs, and stealing money from the country? So what? Everyone knows that already. The people with real power, you don't touch them. They don't care what you say. If you become political and oppose them, then they shoot you.” His voice is bitter. We're not talking about June anymore. “If you're a real journalist, they're only dangerous if you get in their way in the street.” He turns to go.

“Bunny, which was he? Did he die because he was political? Or did he just get in someone's way?”

Khieu stops walking for a second; doesn't look back. “Does it make a difference?”

Ray is at his desk, starting layout. I stay in the doorway a second, watching him as I light my cigarette: nearly seven feet tall, skinny going on dead—sitting folded up in front of the computer, he looks like some giant, easygoing stick insect.

He hears my lighter and turns, gives me a faceful of giant white teeth. “Hey, man. How are ya?”

I have to be careful with this crew—not just because I don't want to give too much away about June's disappearance. I can't discard the possibility that one of them had something to do with it. I'm starting with Ray because he's the safest: been out here for ages, likes his dope and his backpacking, and no funny stuff. He never hurt anyone except by accident.

He has a lot of accidents.

“Talk to me about interns. I need more shooters if we're gonna have a war on.”

He furrows his brow. “This bunch is weird. They're all out of Syracuse, don't ask me why Gus took a whole class, but they all want to do, like, new media, Web video projects and stuff, uh . . .”

“Christ. Can any of them work a real camera?”

“Beats me, man. You see the girl with the eyebrow ring? You should talk to her, she's pretty gung ho. She's got a little point-and-click thing, at least. Her name is—”

“Eyebrow ring. Got it. She any good with a story?”

“Dunno yet, man, they've only been around for, like, two days.”

“Sure. What about the last bunch? Wasn't there a girl shot film?”

“Last bunch? The only girl was June, and I don't remember her having a camera, man.”

Interesting. “Yeah, she's the one. What's she like?”

“She was a sweet kid, totally. She'd come out with everyone, have a laugh. Real smart, man, like, impressive. I don't know if she could shoot, but I bet she'd be good at it. But she's gone, anyway, man.” There's no nervousness about him, his face is as blank and guileless as ever.

“Isn't she coming back?” I ask. “Gus said she was coming back, she left some stuff behind and everything.”

“I dunno. Maybe she just abandoned it, man?”

“Well, shit, you're the one who knew her—she say anything about her trip?”

He looks blank.

“What
did
you guys talk about?”

“I . . . I dunno. Just, y'know, what was the what with Cambo. She wanted to hear about everything, man.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. “I thought she was out, but you should ask Number Two and Barry, she hung out a bunch with those guys.” More interesting. “They should be back in a minute.”

“Right. I'll figure it out. Anyway: eyebrow ring?”

“Dude,” Ray says, suddenly puzzled, “what's with your face?”

“June?” Barry says, barely glancing up from his spreadsheet. “I'd have done 'er. Those skinny girls can rock it in the sack. But it might not be worth the effort . . . she was a bit of a freak show, know what I mean?”

I don't. Raise an eyebrow.

“That chick had fucked-up shit in her head, and, man, she liked to show it off. Not too bright, either. Get this: We're out drinking, right, her and Two and me and Ray, and she's going on and on about this drug story, like no one in this town ever heard of heroin before, right? I don't even remember what she was talking about, but Two starts shutting her down because she doesn't know shit. And then
she's
trying to correct
him,
like, “No, a courier would do this” and “The organization will be structured like that,” and all. I mean, I guess she had some balls on her, but, man, the ego. She was a pain in the ass. Still . . .” His eyes meet mine, and he mimes someone giving a blowjob.

Barry.

He looks like something Frank Bacon dreamed up after a night of bad acid and sodomy, and he acts like a seventeenth-century plantation owner—but he's got a sweet, shit-eating grin, and somehow he suckers folks into believing there's a heart of gold in there. Cambo's a playground for guys like him. I had him pegged for a garden-variety predator, out here to smack whores around and score cheap coke, but watching him leer about June, I'm starting to wonder. Has Barry moved on to rougher games?

I light a smoke; give myself time to think.

“Whatever,” I say, “I don't need a charming personality, I need someone can use a fuckin' camera.”

“Beats me.” He shifts his bulk in the chair and shouts down the hall. “Hey, Two!”

Number Two has been in the kitchen, getting coffee. I wanted to talk to them separately, but before I can think how to stop it, Barry's got him back. When Two sees my face, he starts jumping up and down and shouting, “Holy fuck, man, what happened to you?” I shrug. He keeps going: “For God's sake, man, what did you—” He sounds like he's doing the
Hindenburg
disaster for Radio 4. Barry's grinning.

“I was shooting at Radio Ranariddh. Someone didn't like it.”

“For God's sake,” Two says again. “Trouble does find you, doesn't it?”

“Never even buys me a drink.”

“Keller was asking about your girlfriend, Twoey,” Barry says, bored already. “Or maybe she was your boyfriend, you know, it's hard to tell.”

“Ask your mother,” Two says, not even blinking. “She knows.” He thinks Barry is joking. He thinks this is banter. “Which one is my girlfriend now?” he asks me.

“Little, yellow, different?” says Barry.

“June Saito,” I say. “When's she back?”

Two looks puzzled. “She isn't coming back.” Is there something else in his eyes, some nervous edge? “She went home.” He starts to turn away, as if that was that.

“Weird,” I say, to stop him. Trying to be normal—what now? An impulse: “She left all her stuff behind. Her suitcases are still sitting on my landing. Tripped over them this morning, nearly died.”

I don't even get to the diaries: Two's gone corpse colored. I can smell the fear coming off him, and my fingers start tingling. Barry's looked up from his screen and is watching us with quiet amusement. Has he guessed my real interest? No choice now. I keep going: “Who told you she left?”

“Sh—uh . . . she did,” Two says weakly. “Said it was a family emergency, so she wouldn't make it to Siem Reap after all.”

“Awww, looks like someone got dumped,” Barry says, rubbing at his eyes.

“Would you please get a bloody sex life so you can quit imagining mine?” says Two, recovering himself.

“Touchy,” Barry says, with little mince. Then, turning back to me: “See, told ya that girl was full of shit.” His eyes narrow. “If you're really interested, there was some Khmer guy she hung around with.”

“Who?” Try to act like I just think that's weird.

“I dunno, some older guy. I saw them arguing once, in the Heart, they thought nobody was around. They seemed close.” Is he lying? I can't tell, he does it so easily.

Hell. I have a million questions—Two is hiding something, and I want to know what. But Barry has derailed the conversation, maybe on purpose. And if I keep pushing, it's not just curiosity anymore. Barry may already suspect something: he's as good at spotting liars as he is at lying.

I have to wait—until I can make myself another chance. “Screw it,” I say. “Girl was into some shit with the Khmers, I'm not getting involved. Now, you assholes got any bright ideas about which of these new kids can use a camera?”

I'm hiding out in the paper's kitchen, wringing dregs of coffee from the filter with chopsticks. The whole day has got strange and off-key.

I wish I knew what I just saw. June's name made Two nervous, that was clear. But it doesn't mean much—if they were screwing around, that could be enough to explain the jitters: boss wouldn't like it. But then there was his reaction when I mentioned the suitcases. Maybe he was panicking about what she might have left—the journals, for example. But if he'd had something to do with her disappearance, he'd have had plenty of time to realize the journals might incriminate him and take care of them. No: he thought June was safe home. It was only when I said she wasn't that he got scared.

He doesn't know what happened to her, but he knows something could have.

Which leads me right back to Barry. Is he what Number Two was afraid of? Was he trying to shut Two up, keep him from spilling something? And what about his nameless Khmer? Is that a lead, or was Barry just muddying the waters?

Then there's June—why would she tell Gus she was going backpacking, and at the same time tell Two she was headed home for a family emergency?

So far, talking to her friends has got me nothing but paranoia and a headache. June was smart, or she wasn't. A promising journo, or a poser. I'm wishing I could remember her. Even her face, once so clear, is getting fuzzy in my mind: a picture thumbed too many times.

I need to do something solid, so I ring Clean Steve at the Australian embassy. If June was working on this Sydney heroin story, she must have talked to him. It takes some persuading, but he agrees to meet me at the Russian Tea Room after work.

I'm still sitting in the kitchen when Gus finally shows up. He's munching pad thai from a take-out box with chopsticks, but his face has bad news all over it.

“Hospitals a bust, then?” I ask.

He nods, thoughtful. I wait.