Six and a Half Deadly Sins Page 6

  There were no laws as such. The ministry had drawn up a list of crimes and suitable punishments, but the judicial system was in its infancy and justice was being meted out by old military officers and headmen who interpreted the ambiguous lists however they saw fit. Even so, Phosy’s serious talk seemed to have penetrated, as a brief expression of pride shone in the sergeant’s face. Phosy was suddenly aware of the bruises where the stick had been poked repeatedly into his ribs that morning.

  Before going to the filing cabinet, Teyp took his shirt from the back of his chair and put it on. He opened a drawer and started to finger through the files. There was a sudden flurry of language from the previously silent Mrs. Loo.

  “Here,” said the sergeant, holding the file aloft.

  “Read it to me,” said Phosy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Teyp sat at his desk and gave the date of the crime and the names of the police involved in the investigation. “As we don’t have any working phones up here, we were alerted to the crime by a villager who got a ride in on an army vehicle,” Teyp read. “We were led to a clearing down the gully from the village of Muang Se. It’s a Yao village, and not many of the residents speak Lao, but our own constable Buri does. There we found the two corpses of Headman Mao, the Yao, and Headman Panpan, the Akha, both lying facedown in the dirt. Both had sustained multiple wounds. Both were shirtless and barefooted and wearing only football shorts. To all appearances it seemed that the two men had been overpowered by unknown assailants. Two sharpened bamboo poles covered in blood were left at the crime scene. Signed, Sergeant Teyp Bounyamate.”

  There was a pause.

  “Wait,” said Phosy. “That’s all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody saw anything unusual? No idea why the two men were together and shirtless?”

  “We assumed they’d been cutting trees or collecting fruit.”

  “And did you find any collected wood or produce?”

  “No, sir. We assumed the assailants had helped themselves.”

  “To the missing shirts and shoes as well?”

  “No, Inspector. They were there, folded on a log.”

  “And you didn’t think that point was important enough to mention in a report?”

  The sergeant let forth a sigh that appeared to deflate him and leaned on his desk for support. It was a physical manifestation of desperation, a ritual that Phosy had witnessed and caught himself performing time and again in these frustrating days. The desk creaked in the same key as that of Phosy’s own in Vientiane.

  “Inspector Phosy,” said Teyp, “I’ve got this one finger that can type, and the typewriter’s a monster. Some keys you need to hit with a hammer just to make contact with the paper. Leaving out small details can save me half a day for other duties.”

  “Is that right? And just how many crimes and misdemeanors has your busy station had to deal with this past month?”

  “We have a number of community responsibilities,” said Teyp. He looked offended.

  “And the vegetable allotment,” said Constable Buri.

  “That’s right,” said the sergeant, nodding.

  “There are just never enough hours in a day,” said Phosy. He went over the report information in his mind. There hadn’t been a lot to memorize. “What kind of name is Panpan?” he asked. “It doesn’t shound very Akha to me.”

  “His name was Pan,” said the sergeant. “But he had a stutter.”

  “Oh, well, that explains it,” said Phosy, scratching his head. “So let’s go and visit the scene of the crime.”

  There was a look of horror on the face of the policemen.

  “You want to go there?” asked Teyp, his voice rising to a girly pitch.

  “Naturally,” said Phosy.

  “But …”

  “I’ve had just about enough buts for one day.”

  “It’s getting late, and we … we haven’t cleared it with the villagers.”

  “Then it’ll be a nice surprise for them,” said Phosy. “Let’s go.”

  They traveled together on a perfectly good dirt road, Phosy, Sergeant Deyt, Constable Buri, Comrade Xiu Long and Mrs. Loo. Phosy was feeling smug. His decision to collect a token Chinese official as protection had paid dividends. It had nothing to do with protocol. He knew Toothless was anxious to clear the Chinese road gangs of any wrongdoing at any cost. Just why the man would devote himself to this cause so aggressively, Phosy couldn’t say. But his instincts told him that here in the remote north, there was a thin line between being a conscientious policeman and being a dead one. If that was the case, Phosy would be in less danger with a Chinese official observing the investigation. He’d considered inviting a clerk or some minor military officer. It was a stroke of luck that such a senior cadre as Xiu Long should be available and willing to travel at short notice. In fact, it was so odd that Phosy wondered what other motives Xiu might have to cross back over the border at the invitation of a police officer. The trade mission and consular offices in Phong Sali and Udomxai had been closed down by the Lao following the new anti-Chinese sentiment in Vientiane. Xiu was currently working out of an office in Mengla on the Chinese side. Why would he be so eager to get back?

  But that didn’t matter. Xiu was security. Toothless knew about Phosy’s family. Alone, Phosy stood no chance. At best, he would have an accident and never be seen again. At worst, Dtui and Malee could be harmed. Phosy had to cover both those risks and give himself an edge in the battle with the scary old guy—a man, he’d learned, who was the senior foreman on the road project.

  After fleeing Luang Nam Tha, Phosy had driven to the Chinese border crossing at Ban Boten. It was a village of a few thatched huts, but it was a busy checkpoint. The officers who manned the post seemed to know what they were doing. It was a sensitive political spot, so a senior lieutenant headed the team. Phosy knew him. Within half an hour, they’d cleared the inspector’s passage into China and sent a number of messages through the military network. In another hour, he was in Meng La. Given his position within the Lao hierarchy, he could have expected a hostile reception at the new trade office. The Chinese hadn’t taken the order to leave Laos in good humor. They’d reclaimed the trucks they’d donated to the northern cities, loaded up every stick of furniture and bulldozed the buildings. A day later they were all across the border with a number of Lao wives and girlfriends in tow.

  But trade didn’t end. The new office continued to function, and crossing at Ban Boten or Pang Hai was made easy for affluent Lao who had dealings with the People’s Republic.

  So Phosy was welcomed warmly. The consular staff spoke Lao. Once they’d heard the inspector’s mission, they ushered him upstairs to Xiu Long’s office, where Mrs. Loo translated for the director. Xiu had stepped out from behind his desk, handed the heavy ledger of forms to his accountant and followed Phosy to his jeep. Loo hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic. She’d made enough fuss to be allowed to stop by her residence and pack an overnight bag. The border guards on both sides had been surprised to see Phosy’s passenger. The inspector stopped at the Lao post to be sure his messages had reached Vientiane, and with a nod and a smile from the lieutenant—only five hours after having left—he was back in Laos.

  It had been an atypical Lao day. In a country where a single activity can take a lifetime, so much had happened: the threats, the border, the reclamation of a police unit and now a visit to the crime scene. He wondered whether perhaps time sped up the closer you were to China.

  Yao was not one of Phosy’s regional languages, so he had to rely on Constable Buri to translate. The young man looked at his sergeant constantly as if to confirm he wasn’t giving anything away. They hadn’t been given a chance to collude. The village was the usual mishmash of bamboo and thatch held together by flowering bushes and clotheslines and plastic pipes spidering out of a central water tank. The acting headman didn’t seem that surprised to see them. He led them down beh
ind the communal meeting hall along a narrow path to the clearing where they’d found the bodies.

  One patch of weeds had been thoroughly soaked in blood, now black, but the scent was unmistakable. Two spears of bamboo sharpened to a point lay to one side. One had been broken in half. Both were sticky with blood. Across the clearing sat the shirts, draped over a log. In front of each were sandals neat in pairs. Then, to Phosy’s surprise, two hats—a baseball cap and a straw boater—were perched on top of the shirts. There were no fruit trees around the clearing, no vegetable patches, no signs of recently severed branches.

  According to the translator, the two men had been friends. They drank together. But the incident had taken place early in the morning, and there were no empty bottles to be found.

  “They probably just came to work in the forest and were set upon by bandits,” said Sergeant Teyp.

  Phosy smiled and mentally added the sergeant’s name to his list of suspects. “That’s possible,” he said, “but what work would a man do without implements?”

  “Could have been stolen,” said the sergeant.

  “Along with all evidence of being used? Possible. But why would a worker remove his hat and shoes and shirt before commencing work? What’s the temperature up here at sunrise? About five degrees?”

  “About that,” said the constable.

  “Bit cool to be removing your shirt, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “And what would bandits stand to gain by attacking two unarmed men?”

  “Probably a business dispute,” said the sergeant.

  “Judging from the state of the village we just passed through, I’d say business wasn’t a forte of our headmen. No signs of opulence there. And if you want someone dead for business reasons, you kill them. Get it over with. You shoot them or stab them through the heart. You don’t make several cursory incisions with a hunk of bamboo and watch them slowly bleed to death. No. This was an example of two men being taught a lesson. They’d pissed somebody off, and this was the result.”

  “That’s an interesting theory,” said the sergeant, “but as there are no witnesses, I suppose we’ll never know.”

  “Perhaps. But I’d like to speak to both sets of villagers tomorrow.”

  “They’ve all been interviewed.”

  “There was no record of that in the report,” Phosy reminded him. “And no report is complete without transcripts of witness interviews. It looks like you’re going to have to train another finger to type, Sergeant.”

  “They won’t—”

  Phosy put his finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said. “What was that?”

  They all listened, but no one could hear sounds other then the insects and the whisper of dry leaves in the breeze.

  “I can’t—” began the sergeant.

  “Listen!” said Phosy.

  They stood still and did as they were told.

  “Bee Gee,” came a voice.

  They looked around to see Comrade Xiu Long heading off into the jungle. Nobody had a clue what he’d said. But he was smiling and seemed to have picked up a rhythm. He began to sing. He had no obvious aptitude for melody, but once the music had been identified, the others began to hear it too. Phosy ran after him.

  “Inspector Phosy, you really shouldn’t …” said Sergeant Teyp, but it was too late. Instead, the policemen followed the two visitors through the bush. Mrs. Loo sat on the log and pouted.

  Phosy soon caught up with the loping Chinese man who appeared to be having the time of his life. He was singing at the top of his voice. The undergrowth wasn’t dense, and they could follow a trajectory almost straight to the source of the music.

  They hadn’t gone two hundred meters, but the song was already quite clear. “Ah Ha Ha Ha, Staying Alive, Staying Alive.”

  Whatever they meant, Xiu Long had apparently memorized the words. He slowed to a walk. The trees came to an abrupt end up ahead. The music was loud now. Spread out in front of them were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of temporary dwellings. There were tents and grass huts and shelters with corrugated roofs. Beyond them were rows of dirt volleyball and badminton courts all occupied with games in progress and hundreds of men sitting on the sidelines, cheering. And directly in front of Phosy a small group of men sat watching a game of checkers. Beside them was a boom box blaring out its song.

  “Ah Ha Ha Ha, Staying Alive, Staying Alive.”

  Phosy sat on a stump and watched. The pink sun was setting quickly on the shanty camp of Chinese Road Gang Six. Not three hundred meters from the scene of a dual homicide lived an army of itinerant workers from mainland China. It was no wonder both sides were anxious to clear up the murder of the headmen. The list of suspects had stretched into the thousands.

  “Bee Gee,” said Xiu Long.

  4

  The Notion of the Potion

  The flight to Luang Prabang was overbooked even for cargo. Boxes and sacks and pigs oozing out through the bars of tiny cages were piled to the ceiling. The chances of finding a seat were remote. Siri and Daeng had their note from the Ministry that stated they were priority passengers, but so did all the others waiting at Wattay Airport. They were all hoping to board that one flight. They’d started queuing up at the door forty minutes earlier. From experience, Siri knew that once the glass door was opened, there would be a mad rush for the plane, and the first twenty would get on. It was socialism’s way of culling the elderly and unfit.

  Siri went to the large window and surveyed the taxiing area. The official responsible for putting people on the plane was guarding the door and palming what they called “the small petals of persuasion”: envelopes whose owners hoped would help get them passage ahead of the others. It had worked in the days of the old regime, but this new generation had the audacity to keep the money but continue to give lousy service. Good corruption was something perfected over decades. Siri knew it would be back.

  By the time he returned to Daeng, his smile was broad and confident.

  “Plan?” she asked.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  They left the departure shack by the front door, which was now unmanned, and walked slowly along the side of the building, Siri taking most of his wife’s weight. They went directly to the area where the three remaining embarkation steps were parked. He placed Daeng and their bags on the second step of one of them, released the brake and cast off. It was remarkably easy to push, well-oiled and pneumatically tired.

  The pilot of the cargo transporter had his head out the cockpit window, watching the angry frenzy of erstwhile polite people fighting for the right to sit on an onion sack for an hour. The copilot, checking dials against a typed list, looked up in surprise at the knock on the cockpit door. He was even more surprised to see the elderly couple smiling through the window. “Yes?” he shouted above the sound of the propellers.

  “Open the door, there’s a good boy,” shouted Daeng.

  The copilot nudged the pilot, who squinted as the rising sun broke free of the horizon. He pulled the sunglasses from his top pocket and put them on. It was then that he recognized the face of his favorite noodle seller.

  “Madame Daeng!” He smiled. “What are you doing out there?”

  “Trying to get in,” she shouted.

  “Well, come on, Phot,” the pilot said to his copilot. “Don’t leave our passengers out there in the cold.”

  After a little ladder-shuffling, the couple was warmly ensconced on a stack of some unidentified powdery substance just behind the cockpit. Daeng promised the pilot a triple number two noodle special on the house just as soon as her house had a roof and walls.

  Phosy awoke with a stiff back and fleabites. He’d been booked into a building on the main street that was scheduled to become a hotel. Currently it was an unsubscribed restaurant with a large empty second floor. Xiu Long and Mrs. Loo had slept at a Chinese business office in the old town, which was one of the many addresses labeled “Chinese Liaison Enterprises.” In Vientiane the
y had started to call them spy nooks.

  The manager had brought the former consul and his interpreter to Phosy’s hotel at seven. The former was a Lao caricature of a Chinese right down to the horrible accent and the long hairs dangling from a mole on his chin, enough to outnumber those on his head.

  Xiu Long spoke to Mrs. Loo, who passed along the offer of this Mr. Woo’s help, should the need for it arise. Phosy couldn’t imagine a situation when that offer might be accepted. Like Comrade Civilai, Phosy was wary of Chinese influence. From three thousand in the national census of 1931, the Chinese population in Laos had risen to fifty thousand in 1960. He’d worked out that at such a rate, by the turn of the century, whatever Lao were left would have to be fluent in Chinese to get a job in their own country. Every town had its Mr. Woos, and they were breeding like rabbits. Phosy ushered Xiu Long and Mrs. Loo into his jeep and watched in the rearview mirror as Woo waved them off.

  Their first stop was to the small hospital where the two bodies had been left. There was a concrete room behind the administration hut which the visitors had been able to smell long before they were told about it. Everyone had been eager to send the two cadavers back to their villages for their respective rights and cremations. But Phosy had insisted they stay put until he could have a look at them. With no electricity to cool them, the bodies were wrapped in various herbal leaves and placed near open windows. The temperature had been low since the killings, but still the rotting flesh announced its decline.

  With Mrs. Loo stubbornly anchored in the jeep, Phosy and Xiu Long went into the room and peeled back the leaf shrouds. The wounds were deep and ugly, and already the maggots had come to claim their lunch. Phosy was no Dr. Siri. All he could do was confirm the men were dead, as if there were any doubt. He could see no evidence of anything but an attack with large sharp weapons.

  Xiu Long leaned over the corpses and studied them with fascination. “Deceased,” he said.