Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

LIPSTICK STAINS?
    T hey sat in Madame Daeng’s noodle shop like ragtag generals in a sweet-smelling war room. Not many of the shops in Vientiane had electricity, even though the hydroelectric dam just sixty kilometres away was pumping out six megawatts of the stuff every day. Most stores and restaurants closed before nightfall so they hadn’t bothered to petition their local cadres. But Daeng’s noodle establishment was on the same grid as the Banque Pour le Commerce Exterior Lao as well as the Women’s Association, so burning brightly above the generals was one very new strip light, not at all dissimilar to the two in Siri’s cutting room at the morgue.
    Around the table were Siri and Daeng, Sergeant Sihot, Civilai, and Phosy who sat opposite Dtui and the baby. In many ways this group was a small army. They’d fought battles, defeated guileful enemies and suffered wounds. It was Tuesday evening and each of the generals had been too busy in one way or another to get together before this. Spread across the table was a large sheet of sugar paper upon which the names of the three victims had been written like locations on a map. They were labelled with their nicknames and the order in which they’d been dispatched; Dew 1, Kiang 2, Jim, 3. The generals had all sent a discrete and silent prayer to Buddha for not sending them a number four or five over the past two days. The State frowned on soliciting favours from heaven but it seemed to have worked.
    Supper over, it was Sihot with his famous frittering notepad who was the first to speak. He had three loose pages laid side by side in front of him on the table.
    “Victim number three,” he said, flipping up the third sheet. “Sunisa Simmarit, nickname, Jim. Twenty-four. Single. Was trained as a medic in Laos by the Americans. End of seventy-five she was sent to East Germany with the intention of being there six years to be trained as a doctor. Apparently didn’t pass her second-year exams and was sent home. Still a medic.”
    “But a German-speaking medic with two years of medical training,” said Civilai.
    “More like one , comrade,” Sihot corrected him. “First year was mostly language training. Came back in March this year. Was assigned to Settha Hospital, basic nursing duties plus translating for the East German personnel. Three half-days out at K6 looking after the minor ailments of the domestic staff.”
    “And how did she get that posting?” Siri asked.
    Sihot flipped over two of his note sheets like a shell-game hustler looking for the pea. He found the answer under the third sheet.
    “Here,” he said. “Jim was a Vietnamese speaker. Father Lao. Mother Vietnamese. The old medic broke her leg and they needed someone to fill in for her. With all the Vietnamese out at K6 these days she was the obvious choice.”
    “So she was a second woman who could communicate with the bodyguards,” Phosy reminded them.
    “Specifically Major Dung,” said Siri who had selected his favourite suspect. “Single woman. Not bad looking. Lao. Just his type.”
    “And a fencer, to boot,” said Phosy.
    Somebody let forth a long whistle.
    “You don’t say?” said Siri.
    “And a very good one by all accounts,” Sihot went on. “So good, in fact, she won a couple of local competitions in Germany. There was talk of her going on to bigger tournaments.”
    “All right,” said Daeng. She stood up and refilled everyone’s after-supper teacups. “We’re getting close. We have two fencers and three women in Europe. We have almost enough connections. There’s only one that doesn’t fit. Any more news about Kiang?”
    “Right. That’s where the connection gets disconnected,” said Sihot. “Kiang was something of a non-sporting type. She didn’t take any physical education classes in Bulgaria at all. No self-defence. Nothing.”
    “That surprises me,” said Civilai, “considering the number of life-threatening situations librarians find themselves in. (Daeng crinkled her brow but he pretended not to see.) I mean, overdue book, customer reaches for a machete in her handbag, quick karate chop to the solar plexus, thwack, down goes the rule-breaker, money retrieved. One more victory for Library Woman. Potential rendezvous with Socialist Man. I think I need a drink.”
    “We get the point, old brother,” said Siri. “She does run against the rhythm. Three fencers and the case would be solved. Midnight duels. To the victor, the spoils.”
    Everyone looked