The Brittle Limit, a Novel (11 page)

“Do you know some bad people?”

Socheat stopped and looked directly at
Andrew. “We all know some bad people,” he said then continued
walking, smoking his cigarette down the end.

Andrew watched him walk for half a minute.
Then he jogged over to catch up.

“Look, I’m trying to find out what happened
to a friend of mine.” Andrew pulled out the picture of Ben. “Maybe
you can help me? Do you know him? His name is Ben Goodnight.”

Socheat stopped to study the image. Andrew
did not see any flicker of recognition on Socheat’s face.

“No. Do not know him. He’s handsome. But, no,
I have not seen him. I would have remembered.” Socheat took out
another cigarette and held it in his delicate hand. “What happened
to him?”

Andrew rummaged in his pocket. He always
carried a few things: A knife, a pen and a lighter. He’d gotten
more information simply from lighting cigarettes than from taps and
hacks combined.

“He was in the jungle and he stepped on a
landmine.”

Socheat inhaled with a hiss. “Ahhh. That’s
bad luck. Many people every year are maimed by the landmines
leftover.” Socheat leaned toward Andrew. “Where was he?”

“In Mondulkiri, near the eastern border,
toward the mountains.”

Socheat breathed out, “Ahhh.”

“Is there something about that location?”

“It’s risky, the jungle. Dangerous.”

“Sometimes you’ve got to take risks to make a
living.”

Socheat nodded. “Yes, I know that.”

Socheat walked toward Andrew, his legs moving
in a slow runway strut.

“There is a legend about the forests of
Mondulkiri. The land there refuses to be tamed. That is why the
rain falls heaviest there, the jungle is thickest, the animals the
most ferocious. It is ungovernable. Many men have died trying to
tame it.”

Andrew wasn’t one for myths and legends, but
he always listened. Sometimes amidst the mumbo jumbo, there was a
nugget worth hearing.

Socheat crossed his arms, watching him, one
leg perched out, knee slightly bent.

“Yes, well the landmine that blew up my
friend certainly didn’t want to be tamed,” Andrew said.

Overhead there was a screeching commotion in
the trees.

Socheat nodded up at the trees. “It’s the
park monkeys. They are naughty. They steal food, flowers, even
laundry. Anything they can find. They destroy things for fun and
scare the tourists. Very naughty.”

Andrew stared up into the trees. He didn’t
see anything, but he did hear large shapes overhead in the leaves,
bickering in the night.

Andrew wrote down his local cell phone number
and handed it to Socheat. “If you hear anything about my friend,
please, give me a call.”

“Will do, handsome. And you know where to
find me. If you get lonely.” Socheat winked at him, flipped his
hair and kept walking, his heels clicking on the sidewalk.

Andrew waved his hand in a small goodbye and
muttered “Not likely,” under his breath. He moved away from the Wat
toward the main road of Sisowath Quay and the river. He needed to
walk off the day.

*******

Heading toward the Japanese Bridge, Andrew
saw the bridge was crowded with late night traffic. The clubs must
have all closed.

The bridge, its full name the
Cambodian-Japanese Friendship Bridge, was a gift from the Japanese
government some fifty years ago. It linked the east and west banks
of the river. Next to it stood the town’s latest project, the
Cambodian-Chinese Friendship Bridge, only recently opened to
traffic.

Andrew walked across the street, traffic
flowing by and around him, parting like a sea. The air was thick
with exhaust fumes.

On the bridge, traffic had jammed. Andrew
walked past idling cars and tuk-tuks. At the high point of the
bridge, he stopped and looked over the edge at the slow-moving
Mekong. A couple junk boats floated downriver, trailed by a
late-night tourist booze cruise, lit up with colorful lights.

From where Andrew stood, looking out at the
lights of Sisowath Quay on his right and the dark east bank on his
left, Andrew thought he could easily be looking upriver from the
Memorial Bridge over the Potomac River in DC, gazing at the lights
of Georgetown and the darkness of Roosevelt Island. For a moment,
he felt a queasy combination of homesickness, déjà-vu and the rapid
passage of time, rolled into one. It wasn’t pleasant.

Andrew was knocked from his reverie by three
laughing Cambodian girls, out riding bicycles well after their
curfew. They pedaled by him, bare arms thin as matchsticks, their
long black hair streaming behind them in the wind. One bike’s wheel
rolled over Andrew’s foot, so he stepped closer to the wall. A
noisy truck stinking of diesel chugged by, puffing black exhaust
into the night air. Andrew turned toward the water.

He heard the shot before he felt it whiz by
his hand on the bridge wall. It blasted a chunk of the concrete.
Andrew spun around. Drivers continued on, the jam clearing up. No
one else had noticed the shot. Andrew looked up, back toward Wat
Phnom. From this angle, it had to have come from the hill.

Andrew ducked low by the wall; there was
nowhere to take cover. In the bright bridge lights, the shooter had
a clear shot. Even if the shooter was a bad shot, he might get
lucky the second time around. Or was the first shot a warning?
Andrew hesitated a moment then grabbed the lip of the bridge,
pulling himself over the edge and launching toward the watery
darkness below.

The second shot hit the bridge squarely where
Andrew had been crouching, blasting white chips in every
direction.

Andrew swam toward the quiet east bank of the
Mekong, swift frog-like breaststrokes propelling him away from the
Friendship Bridge. The water was colder than he expected and
smelled of fuel.

Behind him, the lights of Sisowath Quay
silhouetted late night revelers walking along the river’s edge,
oblivious to his watery plight.

As he swam, Andrew stayed mostly under the
water’s surface, popping up every twenty feet to inhale and check
his sight line, to avoid any errant Mekong party boats whose
massive propellers would chop him into fish bait.

The slow-moving brown water carried him
downriver. Ahead to his left, Andrew could see a few yellow lights
from the clusters of simple riverside shacks. He swam toward the
wooden huts, where many Cambodian families made their homes.

Reaching the bank, his feet touching ground,
Andrew stayed submerged and tread in the muck. The pier loomed
ahead. He grabbed a thick wooden pole and settled in behind its
bulk, in the small eddy. In its shadow, Andrew caught his breath
and removed his sopping wet shirt. His chest heaved with exertion
and adrenaline.

Several thin junk boats were tied to the far
side of the pier, knocking together in the light current. Staying
low, Andrew crawled into the closest one, slipping over its low
side and settling on its floor, covered in fishy netting. He
breathed through his mouth to avoid the salty stench.

From here, he could see the bridge upriver in
the distance. He looked beyond the bridge, to the high green hill
of Wat Phnom. He glanced downriver and saw a bright white neon sign
that read ‘Snowy’s’. He clambered onto the shore and followed the
neon, his waterlogged shoes squishing with each step.

At the bar, several hardy patrons drank late
in the night. Three grizzled Western men sat on the wobbly wooden
stools, hold-overs from another era. One of them wore a jean jacket
with a large POW-MIA patch on the back. They watched Andrew walk
in, one nudging his drinking buddies to take a look at what the cat
dragged in.

The bartender, a tall cheerful Brit with rosy
cheeks he inherited from his Scottish mum, lit up when Andrew
walked in. He loved a good story and one had just walked into his
bar.

The bartender asked, “Did you have trouble
finding the place, mate? Looks like you maybe took a wrong turn
there, ended up in the drink.” He sniffed the air. “Kinda ripe too,
the river, this time of year. Everything’s all churned up.” He
wiped the bar with a damp Stella beer towel, glancing up at Andrew
in between swipes.

“Yeah, I got a little turned around,” Andrew
said.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay, but shirts are
required inside, I’m afraid, unless you’re on the balcony. Where
pretty much anything goes.” He winked.

“That’ll work, thanks.” Andrew started to
walk out to the balcony, when the jean jacket guy grabbed his arm,
yelling out to the bartender.

“Get this man a beer, Simon. Looks like he’s
had a rough night.”

Andrew nodded his thanks, took his beer and
stepped out into the night.

While he drank his cold beer, standing in a
dismal pool of river water, staring at the lights of Sisowath Quay
on the opposite shore, Andrew thought about how much he disliked
being target practice.

He’d been shot at before, but only when he’d
expected it. Maybe even deserved it. But this investigation was
supposed to be a mere formality. Apparently, though, somewhere,
he’d struck a nerve. Unfortunately, he didn’t know whose. Which
might make it hard to avoid future bullets bearing his name.

Chapter 12

The next morning at 8:45, Andrew’s tuk-tuk
pulled up to the Ministry of Mines and Energy, a drab, three-story
concrete building that looked like it could serve as an adequate
wartime bunker. The Ministry did not open until 9:00 AM, so Andrew
sat in the back seat and watched as employees scurried into the
front door.

At nine sharp, Andrew hopped out and tossed
several dollars bills in the tuk-tuk driver’s basket, nodding to
the driver, who revved his engine in thanks.

Andrew walked through the metal gate by the
large guard, who eyed him but let him pass. The Ministry was open
to the public. On the Ministry steps, a yellow cat mewled loudly.
The guard, catching sight of the stray, ran to kick it outside the
gates.

Andrew pushed open a glass door, receiving a
blast of cold air from the portable AC unit chugging away in the
lobby window. At the front desk a middle-aged woman with long black
hair piled high on her head in an elaborate braided bun glanced at
Andrew as he approached her gray metal desk. Her thick glasses
reflected the computer screen, which she stared at while listening
to someone yell at her on the other end of the phone. Andrew could
hear the caller from five feet away.

The receptionist spoke into the phone and
punched the hold button on the phone, shaking her head in
annoyance. The red light blinked on and off. The woman whose
nameplate read “Devi Yann” stood and gave a small bow to Andrew,
her folded hands in front of her breastbone. As the woman bowed her
head toward him, Andrew saw her blue butterfly hairclip in her
tight black bun. She said, “Jo’om reap suoh” - Hello - and Andrew
replied with a brief nod.

“Please to welcome you to the Ministry. How
can I be to help you?” She smiled at Andrew.

“My name is Andrew Shaw. I’d like to see…”
Andrew glanced at his notes. “Mr. Phirun Cheng.”

Devi blinked several times, then smiled at
Andrew, her eyes darting left and right around the room. Devi
picked up her phone, punching one button and spoke Khmer into the
mouthpiece, her words short and sharp. She listened to the rapid
reply. The earlier caller was still on hold, the red light
blinking.

“Ahh. So sorry but Mr. Cheng…” She swallowed.
“Mr. Cheng is not in today. So very sorry.” She smiled
apologetically.

Andrew stared hard at her for a minute, and
then turned to go. “OK, thank you.” He pushed part way through the
door then turned back toward her and approached her desk. Her face
showed her surprise.

“Is Mr. Cheng’s Supervisor in today? It is
quite important. I’m here from the US Embassy.” Andrew flashed the
temporary plastic badge Janey had given him.

The receptionist’s eyes widened and she
glanced back at the blinking red light on her phone. Andrew stood
in front of her desk, his arms by his side. Waiting. He nodded
toward the phone.

She picked up the phone again and dialed an
extension. She spoke rapidly into the phone and hung up.

“Mr. Cheng supervisor is here. He will see
you. Please, you take a seat.” She gestured toward the row of white
plastic chairs along the side of the wall. Andrew glanced over his
shoulder.

“Yes, please, over there,” Devi said,
anxious. She did not get many visitors who insisted on seeing
supervisors.

“OK.” Andrew took a seat in a small molded
plastic chair. On a television mounted on the far wall a zombie
movie was playing. Andrew watched as the half dead ravaged a small
village, screaming townspeople everywhere. It didn’t seem
appropriate television for a government Ministry. But who was he to
judge.

A door directly next to his seat opened and a
short Cambodian man with a small paunch came out of the back office
to stand in front of Andrew, blocking his view of the film. He gave
Andrew a curt nod.

“You are here to see Mr. Cheng.”

“Yes.”

“We are so very sorry for to tell you, but
Mr. Cheng is not here today.”

“Yes, so your receptionist said. Do you know
if he’ll be back in tomorrow? I have some questions for him.”

“No. We do not know.” The man smiled and
spread his hands open wide, palms up, as if that resolved the
issue. “We are so very sorry that Mr. Cheng is not here. Sorry for
your trouble. Thank you for coming to visit the Kingdom.”

With that the man bowed, turned quickly and
disappeared behind the door, leaving Andrew standing in the lobby
watching the door. At her desk, Devi refused to look at Andrew.
Andrew walked out the door, with a backward glance, catching Devi
peek at him as Andrew walked away.

*******

At four PM, workers streamed out of the
Ministry, climbing onto bicycles, motos, tuk-tuks. Stylish
boyfriends on shiny red motos picked up their perfectly-coiffed
girlfriends.