Desmond, in his role as a bag-carrying, beer-toting boat passenger, appears to be having a good time despite the weight on his shoulders. He may even get lucky: he was just asked by Clarissa, a Seattle redhead, what he’s doing later. Now read on in part seven of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
Desmond played it ultra cool, as if he was a man used to being asked what he’s doing later, and almost always knows what to say. To buy some time he reached for the packet of snacks gifted to him earlier in the day by the Scandinavian backpackers and opened it. There were some salty looking brown twisted squishy things inside.
“What is it?” “Swedish I think. Or Norwegian.” “No, what is it? Is it meat? Or fish?” “I don’t think so,” he said, taking one and smelling it with a bit more suspicion than was probably necessary, then biting it with a little less caution than was probably appropriate. “Tastes OK,” he said, swallowing bravely, leaning a little on the railing. “Salty. Want one?” Clarissa shook her head politely. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” and Desmond recklessly tossed a few into his mouth, started to chew, felt his face turn white and suddenly was vomiting forcefully into the Tonle Sap. So forcefully that the weight of the backpack almost tipped him over the flimsy guard rail. And if Clarissa hadn’t wrenched the bag off him, he may have followed the Swedish delicacies into the river himself. “Careful, sailor, there’s no lifebelts.”
Humiliated, Desmond crumpled and sat at her feet, spitting dejectedly into the water. “Damn Swedes.” “Would you like another beer?” “Ja tack.” It was several nauseated river-staring minutes before he realised she’d taken the bag with her. In fact, she was already walking back towards him carrying it when it occurred to him that he didn’t have it any more. “The bag!” “It’s certainly heavy,” she commented nonchalantly. “What’s in it?” She handed him a new beer and opened her own, taking a long drink that showed how little interested she actually was in his answer.
Hell, the woman probably just saved my life, I’d better widen the cone of silence. “A large amount of money,” he whispered, making sure he was out of everybody else’s earshot. This raised her eyebrows indeed: “Drugs?” “A favour for a friend of mine. He wanted me to look after it.” “How much again?” “He said a heartstoppingly large amount. I didn’t inquire further.” “Are you being followed?” “No,” he said, then reflected and admitted: “Not that I’m aware of.”
“How do we open it?” she asked casually, and he looked around to see her trying zips and finding the padlock. “No! It might… he… it would…” “Kill you, yeah. I guess.” On that thought, Desmond and Clarissa dropped their discussion to gaze on the sky, all spectacular reds and greys. The boat was puttering southwards along the riverside, pretty lights flashing from the quay. Other boats passed, some people waved. A fishing scull powered by a miniature outboard motor running on the smell of fish oil cut across the current, a small family huddled in the rear under the encroaching dark. The slashing sound of dance music from the quayside aerobics was fading into the encroaching night.
“So who is this friend?” “His name is Hank.” “Not Hank Vaughn?” Desmond had to admit, “I don’t know his full name.” “You don’t know the full name of the guy and you’re carrying…” Her sentence trailed off in mystification. “It never came up.” “Short guy, always wearing a Barcelona shirt?” “Nope. Tall and burned-out aristocratic-looking.” “Oh, so like a classic con artist?” Desmond had to admit that was a fair description. “What does he do?” “He strolls around looking busy.” “Sounds like a lawyer. Or a con artist.” “Looks a bit like Ralph Fiennes, actually, but taller.” “Capable of extreme violence?” “Not really, but I’m sure he’d know people who are. He could fly one in quite rapidly I expect.” “Or he could be as flimsy as a cardboard cop.” “Also true.”
“So this con artist called Hank who looks busy, who you’ve known for how long?” “A few months.” “A few months, has asked you to look after a bag full of money… why?” “He had to go to Bangkok for the weekend.” She drilled him with crazy eyes. “He left town?” “I guess.” She dropped her crazy eyes and shook her head. “Phnom Penh, huh? Your guardian angels are going to work overtime, my friend.” “I pay well.”
She seemed satisfied with that answer. So she tried for another one: “So, what are you doing later?”
Continues next week