Don't Eat Me Page 6

  Siri aimed a kick with his old leather sandal at the center of the shutters. One flap burst open to give a view of lush bushes and blue sky. The other dropped and was left hanging by a single hinge. A blast of fresh late afternoon air flooded in through the window.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Kinim. “Yes, thank you . . . I suppose.”

  Chapter Six

  As Drunk as a Judge

  “Chief Inspector. Congratulations on the new job. Don’t see you around here too often these days.”

  There were two Zils parked on the riverside opposite Madam Daeng’s noodle shop. It was 7:40 a.m.. The drivers usually ordered one spicy number three to eat in and one more to take away for their bosses. Phosy was sitting opposite old See. He’d been a military supply vehicle driver during the wars and had been driving the secondhand Russian limousines since their donation in ’75.

  “The wife usually insists on me eating at home,” said Phosy. “With this job we see precious little of each other. But some days I come down here for seconds.”

  “Don’t suppose there’s a restaurant on the planet that makes noodles like Daeng does,” said See.

  “How’s work?” Phosy asked.

  “Ah, you know. Stop and start. Meeting to meeting. Drive a little bit. Sit in the car for a couple of hours. Drive a little bit. Vientiane’s not exactly a sprawling metropolis. Ten k out to the pedagogical institute or the forestry department is about as far as they’ll let us take the limos. Those Zils are thirsty, bloody beasts. Mostly for show. Any long trips and there are vans and trucks, you know?”

  Phosy was always surprised at the amount of information that spewed forth from his countrymen with the slightest prompting.

  “But you get plenty of overtime,” said the chief inspector.

  “You must be joking,” said See.

  Their noodles arrived at the same time. There were condiments on the table, but nobody ever added them. Daeng’s noodles weren’t to be trifled with. The two men had to wait for the steaming dishes to cool down before they could start.

  “You don’t get paid extra for nights?” Phosy asked.

  “Like you, we work for the government so we’re on a flat rate,” said See. “But there aren’t a lot of places to go after dark. Mostly diplomatic stuff, birthdays, wakes. Any excuse really. Whatever the event, the boss usually ends up being shit-face drunk. Not the old fellows so much anymore but the younger bucks. There’s a lot of what we call rice-whisky diplomacy that goes on after the curfew.”

  “I believe it,” said Phosy. “One of our curfew boys said he was almost killed by one of your mob running him off the road last Saturday morning.”

  The noodles hadn’t cooled much but you could only stare at a spicy number three for so long. They risked serious lip burns but they both chowed down and conversation was put on hold. They smiled as they spooned in the last few mouthfuls of broth.

  “What were we talking about?” said See.

  “Hmm, can’t remember,” said the policeman. “No, wait, I was telling you one of the curfew patrols was almost wiped out by a limo the other morning.”

  “I heard about that,” said See. “It was the morning they found the skeleton.”

  “Really?” said Phosy. “The same morning?”

  “No doubt about it. You rarely get two newsworthy events on the same day in this dead hole.”

  “You know what happened?”

  “There was a dinner at the Soviet residence. Their justice secretary was in town. They invited all the Lao with justice connections, past and present, to come for a knees up. I wasn’t on that night but the boys said there was a long line of limos out front. Being a Soviet do there was a lot of vodka, and all the Party uncles arrived back at their limos a bit the worse for wear. Could hardly walk some of them. The incident you’re referring to involved a certain Party member who decided halfway home that he’d prefer to drive himself the rest of the way. We have a genial enough relationship with the bosses, but some of them, when they get a few drinks inside, they can get a bit stroppy if you know what I mean. You do your best to talk them out of suicidal activities but it’s not worth losing your job over. So, the limo driver that morning let the boss take the wheel and the driver very wisely climbed into the back seat.”

  See looked at his wristwatch.

  “Shit,” he said, “I’m going to have to get moving. I’ve got a politburo passenger today.”

  He was about to put his small pile of banknotes on the table but Phosy insisted on paying for both bowls. He walked out with the driver.

  “So, what happened?” he asked.

  “First thing that happened is the boss put his foot on the accelerator instead of the brake and sent the limo up on the sidewalk, stopping just in time before running over your curfew patrol. The driver shooed the boys away and tried to convince the boss to give him back the wheel.”

  “Are the bosses allowed to drive their own limos?” Phosy asked.

  “Against regulations,” said See, “but there have been occasions. You can’t really argue with a prime minister if he feels like taking a Zil for a spin. Some of them are good drivers. But that boss the other morning wasn’t one of them. He stalled. He crunched gears. He couldn’t tell the road from the grass verge. At one point, he pulled out the ignition key and dropped it on the floor. And the driver took advantage of the lack of movement to hop out. He decided his job was to drive for them, not die for them.”

  “And the limo found its way home?”

  “By some miracle, yes. It was in the compound with all the others when we started work that day. Barely a scratch on it.”

  “But every other Zil out that night had an official driver?” asked Phosy.

  “As far as I know.”

  “And did any of the drivers see the skeleton?”

  “If they did they’re not talking.”

  They reached the Zil and Mr. Geung raced across the street with the driver’s forgotten takeout.

  “Thanks, boy,” he said.

  “You’re w-w-welcome,” said Geung.

  “All this talking and I almost forget the boss’s breakfast,” said See, unlocking the car door.

  “There’s one more thing,” said Phosy.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me the name of the boss who kicked out the driver that morning.”

  “I’d get in trouble if I did that,” said See.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much more trouble you’d be in if you didn’t.”

  It wasn’t so much a network, more an industry. On the Thai side of the river, just a short paddle away, was austerity and opulence. Their TVs said so. The magazines with the four-dollar models wearing thousand-dollar fashions said so. You could get a job in a restaurant in Ubon and make enough in a month to keep your family in Laos alive for a year. What was left would still be enough for a good time in Thailand. Women in their twenties would come to the village and tell the wide-eyed girls, “A few years ago, I was just like you. No money. No opportunity. No future. Then I met Uncle Thongkum. I didn’t trust him at first. How could you trust someone who makes promises beyond your dreams? But I was desperate. He arranged me passage to Ubon and got me a job in a restaurant. The owner was nice. She was a Lao married to a Thai. At first, she had me working in the kitchen. And even there I was making two hundred dollars a month. But she said I had a nice personality and that I should try out as a waitress. I still had my two-hundred-dollar basic salary, and I got tips in the restaurant. Some nights I’d make a hundred dollars. It was like being in a dream.”

  And the village girls, thirteen, fourteen upward, sat in front of her spellbound like dogs waiting for a cat to fall from a tree. And one by one they followed this fantasy to Thailand and put their youth and their lives in the hands of Uncle Thongkum. And in Thailand they ripened too fas
t and fell from the tree too soon. Uncle Thongkum didn’t care either way. He had a nice house, a major wife who supervised his kitchen, two minor wives on a rotational basis in the bedroom and enough money to shut everyone up. Living in a poor country was a crooked man’s dream.

  And then he was dead. He was sixty. He’d had regular health checkups. He didn’t drink or smoke. He even exercised which was most uncommon on the Lao side. None of that had prevented his death. His wives were at the funeral, his sons, their wives, representatives of the local council, his employees and his nephew, Wee, the policeman.

  The topic of conversation in the temple was how they’d make up for this loss of income, how the uncle’s wealth would be distributed, and, for that matter, where exactly the trafficker might have kept his money. There were no lawyers. He lived fifty kilometers from the nearest bank branch. There was nothing under the mattress. It was as if a sink hole had opened under the family business and everything had vanished into it. Nobody expressed their sorrow for the loss of Uncle Thongkum. Sergeant Wee certainly felt no regret. In fact, his job had just become a lot simpler. He no longer had to think of a way to drag the old man screaming all the way to Vientiane. His mission had been accomplished in the neatest way.

  “And, action!” shouted Siri.

  The handsome young man fought his way through imaginary vegetation peering left and right in case a French patrol might pounce upon him. He looked sensational. He was a Lao Marlon Brando: firm of jaw and proudly built.

  “A dead ringer for me,” said Civilai.

  “You never looked like that even in your dreams,” said Siri.

  They stood beside rather than behind the Panavision because they still hadn’t worked out how to operate it. It seemed in need of power of some kind, but they couldn’t imagine the makers of The Deer Hunter running a twenty-kilometer cable out to the location sight. They’d been students in Paris when technology amounted to lighting a gas lamp and starting a car with a crank handle. They’d returned to the jungles of Laos where there were no telephones and most of their learning came through watching newsreels and feature films on reel-to-reel projectors powered by diesel engines. Neither of them was stupid but just looking at the camera gave them migraines. They knew there had to be some sort of battery component and some way to charge it. They’d played with all the buttons and levers and had evoked no response from their large toy. They’d been to the Fuji Photo shop and asked the owner whether his expertise extended to the Panavision. He told them he was rather limited to Instamatics and Zenits but he had a cousin in Sydney who might know somebody. He said he’d keep them informed. So, they used their magnificent camera as a prop to see how their would-be actors responded in front of it.

  “And your line?” said Siri to the Lao Brando. But the boy continued to flex his muscles and gnash his splendid teeth without speaking.

  “Didn’t I give you the script?” asked Siri.

  “Yes, comrade.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “I can’t read,” said the boy.

  As Siri and Civilai weren’t about to set up literacy classes for their actors they were once again reminded of what a monumental task they’d set themselves. They were currently advertising for actors through word of mouth at the market. They daren’t place ads in the Pasason Lao newsletter because there was a remote possibility someone at Culture might read them. And the ministry had taken on the task of recruiting actors itself from its own staff. What Siri and Civilai really wanted was a nationwide search for actors and anyone who could turn on a camera.

  “I’m beginning to think we’ve climbed on the back of a buffalo that doesn’t realize it’s a buffalo,” said Civilai.

  Siri pondered that concept and, although he didn’t understand it, he certainly couldn’t refute it.

  “Don’t you think we’re being too ambitious?” he asked.

  “In what way?” asked Civilai.

  “Attempting to make a full-length movie without technicians, actors, funding, support or the ability to turn on the camera?”

  “Those aren’t the thoughts of the Dr. Siri I know,” said Civilai. “Haven’t we attempted the impossible before?”

  “Yes,” said Siri, “usually without success.”

  They gave Lao Brando three-hundred kip for his time and spent another half an hour attempting to activate their camera. Then gave up and went for a drink at Two Thumb’s bar behind the morning market. A lot of problems had been solved there but none as titanic as this.

  Judge Haeng was the head of the Public Prosecution Department at the Ministry of Justice. Dr. Siri described him as “a spotty, immature little runt who got his education on the back of his wealthy father’s funding then got promoted to the position of judge because there was nobody else in the running, and every country needs a judge or two.”

  The assessment may have been a little cruel, but that didn’t make it any less accurate. After some stormy initial encounters, Siri and his team had gathered enough dirt on the man to have him off their backs and house-trained. Chief Inspector Phosy knew enough about the judge to dispense with formality and politeness. He could drop by his office any time without an appointment and expect a warm welcome.

  “Chief Inspector Phosy, my dear friend,” said Haeng when he saw the policeman in the doorway. He hurried over to him and took Phosy’s hands in his like a kickboxer in gloves.

  “I was so very pleased to hear about your promotion,” said Haeng. “I would have loved to have attended your ceremony, but I had urgent ministry business in Vang Vieng.”

  Phosy rescued his hands and walked into the room. He knew the head of public prosecution’s staying away from the inauguration was a political decision. The judge had his own nominees for the position; men who would serve him without question. The only business Haeng had in Vang Vieng was a retired nightclub singer with a penchant for chocolates.

  “The morning of the twenty-third of this month . . .” said Phosy.

  “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” asked the judge. He closed the office door and walked to his desk. He didn’t sit. Neither did Phosy.

  “Something stronger?” asked Haeng. “A twenty-year-old scotch to launch your new career?”

  “On the morning of the twenty-third of this month you were driving home from an event at the Soviet residence out by Ammone Temple at around two-fifty a.m.,” said the policeman.

  “I’d have to check my diary,” said Haeng.

  “That’s not necessary,” said Phosy. “I can tell you for certain. At one point, you decided you’d like to take over the controls of your Zil.”

  “I . . .”

  “Despite your obvious state of inebriation.”

  “Oh, I see what this is.” The judge smiled. “It’s probably based on a statement by my driver, right? Yes, I’m sure it is. I put in a complaint about his driving skills. He stood to lose his position. This sounds like revenge to me.”

  “That may or may not be so,” said Phosy. “I have no knowledge of your relationship with the driver you had that morning. I haven’t talked to him. My information comes from our curfew patrol. You almost killed them.”

  “That’s nonsense, Phosy.”

  “In fact, by coincidence, there were two patrols on that stretch of road when you decided to kick out your driver and take the wheel yourself. They recognized you.”

  Phosy had never hesitated to cling to a good lie if it brought out some truths.

  “Inspector, you’re taking the word of uneducated, unsophisticated youths. And what is this all about anyway? Surely the national police chief isn’t on the streets investigating a drunk driving case?”

  “No, Judge. I’m on the streets investigating a murder.”

  “Well, that’s more like it.”

  “I’m following up on all the vehicles seen around the Anusawari Arch between three and four on Thursday mornin
g.”

  “And you think that might include my limousine,” said Haeng indignantly.

  “I’m asking,” said Phosy. “All I need to do is confirm that the patrol guards weren’t lying about the incident.”

  The judge walked to the far wall and looked up at the louver windows as if he could see a canopy of lush vegetation outside. In fact, they were too dusty to see anything at all.

  “All right, Phosy,” he said, putting up his hands. “You’ve got me. It was the Soviets. They seemed to have a quota of vodka to get through a night. It flowed like the Mekhong. I’m sure you know how pleasant it is to drink expensive alcohol for free. You don’t even notice it going down. But by early morning you’re shaking hands with garden statues. That morning I was so drunk I really needed the driver to tell me to pull myself together. But, yes, Phosy, it’s true. I did order him out of the car. I did attempt to drive that clumsy black beast. And at one stage, when the car stalled, I did give the driver permission to desert. I’m very lucky I wasn’t seriously hurt. At one stage I came around, and I was heading toward the river with no idea how I got there.”

  “Then it’s conceivable you drove to the arch,” said Phosy.

  “God, man, have you never been drunk? At one point I became paranoid. I was certain I was about to die. I drove the limo back to the Zil parking lot in first gear, left the key in the ignition and staggered home. But the Anusawari Arch is forty-nine meters high. Even in the condition I was in I’m sure I would have noticed it had I passed it.”

  Phosy removed a map of the city from his briefcase and unfolded it on the judge’s desk.

  “Perhaps you could show me the route you took from the Soviet residence to the parking lot,” he said.

  “Are you serious?” said Haeng.

  “If you’re that certain you didn’t pass the arch you must have an idea of how you avoided it. It’s only two blocks from where you left the car.”

  Haeng went to the desk and looked at the map.

  “This would be a guess,” he said and he trailed a finger from the residence to the point where he parted company with the driver. “I remember passing Sok Paluang Temple on the way. From there I hit the river road somehow. Don Chan Island was looming there in front of me.”