Cambodia Noir Read Online Free Page A

back, you’re broke already?”
    â€œI was broke when I got back. Vientiane went bad.”
    â€œI don’t want to know! And I can’t pay you to fuck around in the trees when there’s a war about to start.”
    â€œThere’s always a goddamn war.”
    I feel my jaw clench. See it in his eyes: A good war is just what you need.
    I want to hit him in the face. Reach for a cigarette instead.
    He grabs it out of my mouth.“ Hijo de puta, what’s wrong with you?”
    Fucker went to Georgetown, speaks better English than me—he just swears in Spanish because he likes the sound.
    â€œDon’t be a baby. I won’t burn the place down.” Take another one from my pack, light it.
    Gus’s eyes are narrow, bloodshot. He runs a huge hand through three days of beard. “You just fogged everything that wasn’t fixed.”
    â€œWho cares? No one’ll use ’em, anyway.”
    â€œDo what you like,” he says finally.
----
    The scum are still floating around as I leave, excited looks on their pasty faces as they chew over all the things that could go wrong between now and tomorrow. I’m dizzy from hours in the dark and too much developer. Gus is off in graphics, so I stop at his desk and steal the cigarettes he keeps for emergencies. Then I’m back on the street, dazed by the afternoon sun. The Cambodia theme song starts playing:
    â€œMoto? Moto?”
    â€œ. . . need a ride?”
    â€œ. . . want a girl?”
    â€œ. . . come and eat—”
    â€œ. . . anywhere you want—”
    â€œ. . . where you go, handsome guy?”
    â€œ. . . she very pretty—”
    I pass by and they sink back to their perches, waiting for the next mark.
    Trees line the block outside the office, curving overhead like a roof and splashing the ground with dappled light. Even in the shade it’s hot, and my shirt is stuck to my back in seconds. Day workers sleep on the grass next to the snack carts. It’s quiet: you wouldn’t think a war was about to start.
    I’m only going a few blocks, but the state I’m in, not sure I’ll make it on foot.
    I stop to buy a fried banana from an ancient woman with a table by the side of the road. It’s the tiny, sweet kind—tastes of woodsmoke and honey, and I savor the rush of sugar.
    It’s not enough.
    The country can go to hell without my attention. I need a beer.
    â€œMoto, mister? Moto?”
    â€œSure. Take me to the river.”
----
    The Foreign Correspondents Club will be rammed: anytime a gun goes off, all the journos and aid workers get thirsty. I don’t want to hear more people talking about how thrilling it all is, I just want a drink.
    There’s a new place just across the road—an open-air pub on the corner, looking out over the quay and the water. Posh, empty; the neon over the awning says THE RIVER’S EDGE . I go in. A hardwood bar carved with twining snakes, and a girl behind it: black eyes, face like a temple statue, busy doing nothing. She smiles as I step off the sidewalk and tells me I am very pretty. Then she says I look like I need a drink.
    â€œThose things don’t go together.”
    â€œI not see you yet,” she says, whatever that means. “How long in Cambodia?”
    â€œNine years.”
    â€œOh!” She grabs my hand in both hers, like I’ve just told her about Ma’s tragic death in that threshing-machine accident. “You want a lot beer.” She smells of cheap soap and whiskey. “I am Chantrea. You call me Channi. I work before at Ms. Pong bar, but I not see you there. I think you new, but you old.”
    â€œDon’t flatter me.”
    She giggles. She’s still hanging on to my hand, and I’m not minding it too much. Force the feeling down with a pint of cheap beer. Chasing girls in a place like this is a good way to get knifed: managers don’t like