Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in the second part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, recovered a text from last night and had a call from trouble-causing Hank so he’s heading for Riverside – and he’s only been awake for 25 minutes. Now read on.
…..
The Running Dog was an elegantly seedy bar a couple of blocks back from the river, run by a bald, chain-smoking Belgian named Philippe and his dog, Rex, who treated his staff like princesses but refused to serve Spaniards (Basques and Catalans excepted). The red, stained walls were decorated with vintage propaganda posters and movie stills. Desmond sat outside with a beer, smelling the morning garbage, waiting for Hank.
He and Hank had a strange history. Desmond struggled to remember whether he had ever seen him in daylight. They had first met in Happy Joy Club, a now disappeared bar that Hank loved precisely because he claimed it had the saddest-looking bar girls in the city. “Pure misery! In the Happy Joy Club! It’s too banal, too perfect!”
Desmond had shuffled in one midnight soon after arriving in the city and they had struck up an acquaintance at the bar, Hank holding forth on a variety of subjects from phone companies to contraception and answering Desmond’s new-arrival questions with a blend of fantasy, mythology and rumour. The older man’s English Colonial façade, fenestrated with thick glasses, suggested gargoyles dangling from the walls of a Norman castle and yet he was able to blend into the crowd faultlessly. Perhaps it was the white suit that one always thought of him wearing, even though he never did.
They ran into each other every few weeks and loosely called each other friends. More than once they had stumbled down Street 51 at dawn in pursuit of the next one. The beer, like all morning beers, was going down disturbingly quickly. ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there? xx Nancy.’ Options/new contact: Nancy; saved.
“Desi!” Hank was coming from the north, his ambling walk suggesting that he was swinging a cane, though of course he was not. He sat himself down and ordered with a flick of his wrist. “How are you, my dear man?”
“Been better. Been worse.” “Excellent,” said Hank and simultaneously there was the swift appearance of a tall glass of ice filled with two strange-coloured liqueurs arranging themselves around each other. “Ahhh,” he sighed at the first sip. Inspired, Desmond ordered another draught.
Time stopped. Hank farted quietly and gave a little smile. The two men gazed at each other through sunglasses in masculine indifference. A motodop rolled to a stop and sat astride his machine, sucking at a straw stuck into a small plastic bag of undefined liquid. “I need your assistance, Desi,” said Hank suddenly. “I hope I can count on you.”
“Sure, whatever, man. What’s up?” “I’ve got to go to Bangkok on business for a couple of days and I need you to look after this.” Hank nonchalantly patted the backpack he had casually dropped between their cane recliners. “I don’t want to leave it in my apartment. Not even in the safe. And I can’t take it with me.”
“Sure,” said Desmond. Then after a beat it occurred to him to ask: “What’s in it?” Their voices had instinctively dropped low.
“Some money.”
“How much?”
“You don’t want to know. “
“I don’t?”
Hank turned and lowered his glasses like a Bond villain. One of the old, classic ones, nondescriptly handsome but acting poorly. “You don’t. A heart-stoppingly large amount of money.”
It got quiet again. More drinking. The bag was black with grey trim, sturdy but still portable. An unassuming padlock hung from the zipper carelessly, hardly worth noticing. “I’m just going to get up and walk down the street shortly. I’ll call you in a couple of days. I know this may inconvenience you a little, but remember that if I can afford to leave this behind with you, I can afford to pay you handsomely for your time.” Again, the lowering of the glasses. It was less dramatic this time, but just as effective in keeping Desmond quiet.
Hank pulled himself up out of the recliner, drained the last from his glass, rolled the ice cubes in his mouth and spat them into the street, and then with a step or two and a “Tuk-tuk, sir?” was gone.
Leaving Desmond alone with the remains of his beer and a heart-stoppingly large amount of money. Then the phone buzzed at him. New message. Nancy.
Continues next week