Weaponized (6 page)

R
obinson’s hotel and Kyle’s are a study in contrasts. In Robinson’s hallway, there’s no Cambodian John Cleese lurking around chain-smoking while picking up the charred corpses of errant mosquitoes that kamikazed into the bug light. No belch of rusted plumbing escapes from an open door. No crime-squad-ready stains on the carpets or walls.

This hallway, the passage to Robinson, is a testament to success. The day’s financial newspapers and fresh flowers lie before doors. Dead room-service trays dot the ethereal white carpet. That the designers had the audacity to choose white carpeting for a hotel in Phnom Penh tells Kyle more about the guests who stay here than all the crystal dishes, fine caviar bowls, and hand-blown carafes.

He runs his fingers along the wall for material verification.
This is happening,
he thinks.
I am walking to Robinson’s room.

I am going to do this.

This is happening.

Kyle reaches Robinson’s door, room 314, traces the knob with his fingers, closes his eyes, and finally knocks.

R
obinson opens on the third knock, chewing his omnipresent processed-ham sandwich and holding a cigarette. “Hey, stunner,” he says to Kyle. “Come in.”

Kyle hesitates.

“Come on,” Robinson says. “I’m just fixing a drink.”

“I don’t know.”

“About coming in? Or the drink?”

Kyle peers past the door into Robinson’s suite: two rooms—sitting room and bedroom—separated by a plush carpeted rise in the floor.

Robinson goes to the freezer and opens it; Kyle sees it’s stocked with two large bottles of whiskey, a bag of ice, and several cartons of cigarettes. “I visited the duty-free shop.” He laughs, drags on the cigarette. “My mother was an inveterate coupon clipper. Even today, I can’t resist a bargain.” He drops some cubes in a glass. “Come in.”

“We need to talk.”

Robinson’s voice drops. “Come in. Seriously.”

Kyle knows Robinson’s right. This isn’t a hallway conversation.

“Lock it behind you,” Robinson says; he pours two drinks, then descends into the bedroom. “What happened?”

“Two guys tried to kill me,” Kyle says, locking the door behind him. “You said I was safe.
You said that.
”

Robinson hands Kyle a drink and raises his own glass to toast. “I never said you were
safe.
I said I didn’t
notice
anyone following you. Someone like you is never going to be safe. You know that.”

Kyle ignores the friendly gesture, takes a fast belt of whiskey. “You were smart enough to find me, but you didn’t notice two guys out to kill me.”

“I happened upon you. I wasn’t looking. I told you that.”

Robinson’s right. He did say that. “Who do you think sent them?”

Robinson works an ice cube in his cheek. “No clue.”

Kyle watches Robinson’s teeth obliterate the ice. “Chandler?”

Robinson sits on the unmade bed, sliding the scalloped sheets over. “You’re a popular guy. You probably can’t keep track of all the people who want to kill you. Only thing I know is this: I’m not one of them. And that should carry some weight.”

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t invent anything for Chandler.”

“Then why’d you run?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Kyle says through clenched teeth, trying to contain his frustration. Robinson seems completely unmoved.

Kyle looks at the sheets, sees lipstick traces, wonders if Violet was here before him. “Is your exchange still an option?”

“Absolutely.”

Kyle starts to worry a hole in the rug with his shoe. He’s not quite so cavalier about his identity. “Good.”

Robinson works his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. “I feel like you have some secrets you’re not telling me. Secrets are different than sins. People get hurt over secrets. I need to know what I’m walking into.”

“I don’t have any secrets.”

Robinson laughs. “Okay. Total bullshit, but okay.” He takes a drink. “We’ll try that one again later. You have your passport on you?”

“Back at my hotel.”

“I’m going to need to see it,” Robinson says.

“I figured.”

Robinson rises from the bed. “Good. Let’s go, then.” He finishes off the drink, drops the cigarette in a can of Diet Coke, and looks Kyle over from head to toe. “Kyle, if you are going to be me, you cannot—under any circumstances—continue to dress like
this.
You’re, what? About a forty-two long?”

“Roughly.”

“We’ll get you fixed up proper. I’ve got some choice custom.” Robinson pulls his car keys from between the bedsheets, jingles them at Kyle, and heads toward the door. “If you’re gonna be me, might as well take advantage of some of the benefits.”

Kyle opens up the wall safe; reaches to the back, past the dwindling stack of American bills; finds his passport; and then leaves it, reconsidering.

He’s shaking, getting that trapped feeling. Everything’s moving too fast.
Who is Robinson?
He tells himself he doesn’t have to go back downstairs, doesn’t have to get into Robinson’s car and hand over his passport. Somewhere, there are still unexplored options.

He sits on the bed and thinks about the documents in his safe. They make him Kyle West in the eyes of the world. That’s it. That’s life in this century. It’s not your parents, your job; it’s not who loves you, not your political beliefs, not even your gender. All the things that once conferred identity are up for grabs. It’s your papers that give you weight, that tell everyone who you are.

There’s still time. He could stick his head out the window, call down to Robinson, and tell him it’s off, that he’ll figure something else out.

But he’s a marked man. And he gets the feeling everyone he passes on the street knows it too. In this city, people look at a dead man with a sense of commiseration.

Stop debating. No matter who Robinson is, being him can’t be any more trouble than being yourself right now.

He pulls the passport out of the safe and puts it in his shirt pocket, a psychic talisman against his chest.

K
yle taps on the driver’s-side window. The door is locked. Robinson’s eyes are closed, and he’s singing in dream murmurs to a Cambodian pop song on the radio.

Robinson stirs and his eyes snap open. He unlocks the passenger door, reaches into his suit pocket, pulls out a travel-size Tylenol bottle, and dry-swallows a fistful of them.

Kyle hands his passport over to Robinson for inspection. Robinson cracks open the navy-blue cover and smiles. “Perfect.” He flips through, scrutinizes the immigration stamps.

“Look…how do we know this is going to work?”

“We don’t,” Robinson says.

“I’ve got plenty of risk right now. I don’t need to invite any in.”

“Fair enough.”

“That’s it?”

“You’re right. We need to test it.” Robinson hands the passport back to Kyle. “Time to shop.”

Robinson pulls his car—windshield dotted with dirt and insect corpses—into the pharmacy’s parking lot and squeezes it into a space between two tuk-tuks.

“Take mine,” Robinson says, handing Kyle his passport. “Pick up what you need.”

Kyle opens Robinson’s passport, absently starts to flip the pages, putting off the moment of exchange.

“That means you give me yours too,” Robinson says.

Kyle hesitates.

“If for some reason I was going to fuck you over, you think I’d do it here? In a parking lot full of people? I’m putting just as much trust in you.”

Kyle nods. “All right. You’re right.” He hands Robinson his passport.

Kyle and Robinson burst through the automatic door.

One of the benefits of the continued French presence in Phnom Penh is that the pharmacies are unusually well stocked for the third world. There’s a spiraling line at the counter, and in a mix of French, Khmer, and English, people plead for advice about stomach cramps, skin disease, and sunstroke.

“Meet up at the register,” Robinson says and takes off down an aisle stocked with makeup and hair dye.

Kyle picks up a basket, looks at the aisles’ signs.

If you keep moving, nothing can hurt you.

He studies Robinson’s passport, then starts pulling items off the shelf with a shaky hand, dropping them in his basket.

Hair dye. Dark brown.

Electric razor. Regular razor plus blades. Shaving gel.

Blow-dryer and mousse. Robinson has thick, voluminous hair that will take some work for Kyle to achieve.

He checks Robinson’s photo again to make sure he’s not forgetting anything. He notices the stock boy looking at his trembling fingers and jams his hand into his pants pocket.

Don’t stick out. Give no one a reason to remember you.

The standing water in the tub has risen several inches. Robinson sits on the lip, examining his purchases.

Kyle stands before the mirror with a pair of scissors, chopping his hair off in chunks and watching it collect around the drain. In the photo, Robinson’s hair is semi-short on the sides and longer in the front. Kyle’s is unruly all over.

“Mirror’s yours,” Kyle says to Robinson.

Then he walks over to the tub and slides on a pair of surgical gloves to work the hair dye in at his roots. He has to leave it in for the maximum time. His hair has lightened considerably because of constant exposure to the sun.

“I need the mirror back,” Kyle says.

“Okay,” Robinson says. Overheated, he takes off his shirt and wipes his chest and stomach down with it. “It’s hot as hell in here.”

“You decided to wear a suit.”

“I refuse to have my fashion dictated by this country’s climate.” Robinson lights a cigarette, takes off his belt, undoes the top button of his slacks, and turns the shower knob as far as it goes toward the letter
C.
“I’m not coming out until you’re done with the mirror.”

Kyle goes to work on his beard, using the electric razor first and then shaving close to the skin with a Mach 3. There’s less irritation underneath than he expected, but he applies aftershave to be sure he doesn’t get a rash.

Even though he’s turning himself into Robinson, he looks more like his old self than he has in months. He has to contend with the dual shock: the sight of his old face, and the new one he’s making.

Avoid mirrors. Shun surfaces.

“We can switch,” Kyle says, a little existentially queasy about rediscovering himself in a situation like this. “I need to wash out the dye.”

The military checkpoint is about a hundred yards ahead of them. Kyle starts to fidget when he realizes what Robinson’s plan entails. “This is your strategy?”

“You wanted to test it.”

“Yeah, but…” Kyle motions to the checkpoint.

“We can’t just go try to buy a six-pack—”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

Robinson slows down. “Better to find out here than the airport. At least here we can make a getaway in a
car
. If it’s going to fail, I want it to fail somewhere where I can either drive fast or pay someone off.” He hands Kyle his passport. “Now give me yours.”

Kyle pulls it from his shirt pocket.

Four men in uniform with automatic rifles strapped to their chests approach the Escalade. The leader raises his palm for the car to stop. They’re all wearing the same regiment green, and they all have the same face and the same spent soldiers’ eyes that light up only when they find fresh prey.

They aim their guns right at the Escalade.

“Yeah…so much better than the airport.”

Robinson puts his hand on Kyle’s knee. “In my experience, soldiers, like most third-world employees, are infinitely corruptible.”

The soldiers come closer, fingers on triggers, and yell in unison:

“Why you here? Why you here?”

Robinson gets into character, rolls down the window. “What’s the problem?”

“Road closed. Can’t you see?”

“What wrong? Can’t you see?”

“No go.”

Robinson gestures toward the road behind them. “There’s no sign.”

“UN there—”

“De-mining—”

Robinson interrupts. “There’s no sign. How am I supposed to know?”

“Mines—”

“Mines from Khmer Rouge—”

“Vietnam—”

“Very bad—”

“No go—”

“No—”

“Go.”

The soldiers, their English almost exhausted, point their guns at Robinson and Kyle.

“Out.”

“Get out.”

“Out of car…both of you.”

Robinson turns off the car and opens the door. “Okay.” He motions to Kyle. “That means us.”

Kyle gets out, the color already starting to drain from his face.

“Passports. Both of you.”

Robinson hands them Kyle’s without a care in the world while Kyle hands over Robinson’s and grits his teeth. One of the soldiers inspects the passports. Kyle West. Julian Robinson. He looks up; down. Up; down. Up; down. The whole time with a movie slasher’s empty stare.

The other soldiers search the car, looking in the glove compartment and under the seats, opening up the cooler and Robinson’s duffel bag.

No such thing as the personal in a place like Phnom Penh.

“Open the back.”

“Fine,” Robinson says.

He goes to the rear and opens it. Two soldiers crawl inside while the third keeps the gun trained on Robinson’s back. The two in the car talk in Khmer, throw things around, and then step out, satisfied.

They walk Robinson over to the side of the road, a gun pressed against his spine, and stand him next to Kyle.

“You.”

Kyle points to his chest. “Me?”

“Robinson.”

It takes a second to register. “Yes. Robinson.”

“You are Robinson?”

“I am.”

“You…”

“Yes.” Kyle’s heart drops to the soles of his feet.

“…have lost weight,” the soldier finishes. “You look much less like child. No more round face.”

The soldiers start back.

“Turn around and go. You done.”

“You go…”

“Get on the highway.”

Robinson and Kyle walk back to the car, settle in, return the seats to where they were before the search. Robinson starts the car, fiddles with the radio dial, and then offers Kyle his hand. “I’m Kyle. Kyle West. Nice to meet you.”

Kyle lets a smile sneak out. “Julian Robinson.”

They laugh together. Damned men in stereo.

“We need to celebrate,” Robinson says, “our successful merger.” He guns the engine.

“Where do you feel like going?”

“This is your town, isn’t it? Surprise me. But while surprising me, make sure we go somewhere that shows some tits.”

Kyle smiles. “Won’t be a problem here.”

“I think that soldier insinuated I look fat in my photo.” He checks the rearview mirror for oncoming traffic. “Asshole.”

“I don’t think he insinuated it.”

Robinson bursts out laughing. “No, he did not.”