The Khmer Kill: A Dox Short Story (Kindle Single)

poor, and sad. He passed a store selling ornately carved wooden coffins, and wondered whether it was a good omen or a bad one, under the circumstances. Well, he’d know soon enough.
    He zigzagged southwest, checking his back along the way. He didn’t think he’d been followed from the hotel, but it was hard to be sure here, it was too chaotic. The streets were choked with shifting knots of shoppers crowding under the shadow of stall umbrellas so jam-packed they formed a kind of tent city encroaching to nearly the center of the street. A low cacophony enveloped him as he walked: tuk-tuk drivers honking their horns; scooters buzzing through cracks in the mass of pedestrians; shouts and cries and laughter. Overhead, power lines stretched haphazardly from building to building like baling wire strung by a blind man. On all sides, people haggled over everything imaginable: shirts and shoes and underwear; quartered chickens and beef and fresh fish on ice; all manner of refurbished electronics. The air was redolent of diesel and the unforgettable rotting-sewage smell of durian fruit. He loved all of it.
    Presently the riotous street scene began to ebb, and he arrived at the more genteel environs of Rubie’s. The bar, he saw, occupied the ground floor of a white two-storied corner building. On both sides were patios and French doors, all surrounded by tall potted plants such that passers-by could catch only a glimpse of the interior. Dox circled it several times from different angles and directions, checking for surveillance along the way. Nothing struck him as out of place and he headed inside.
    A young Khmer guy stood from behind the long bar as Dox entered, offering a smile and a
sampeah
. Dox returned the greeting and looked around. The place was empty, but had the feel of soon-to-be-bustling rather than currently dead. Just one long room and an alcove with couches in back, the walls, ceiling and floor all comprised of comfortably worn wood. A slight breeze descended from the slowly turning ceiling fans, and sun seeping through the open French doors offered the only light. Behind the bar was a modest stereo system, softly playing what sounded like Khmer pop, and an equally modest though serviceable selection of booze. It was a little early for the kind of libation Gant claimed Khmers couldn’t make, though; plus he didn’t want to dull the edge while he was operational. So he took the last stool at the bar, with a view of all the doors, theatrically mopped his sweaty brow, and ordered a tonic water with a slice of lemon. The bartender gave him his drink and they made pidgin small talk for a few minutes. Then the bartender returned to his seat and picked up a Khmer magazine, apparently what he’d been reading when Dox had entered. Dox sipped his drink and settled in to wait.
    True to form, Gant strolled in at noon sharp, carrying a green canvas duffle bag. A few western tourists had since taken up residence on the couches in the alcove, but otherwise they had the place to themselves. Gant set down the bag against the bar alongside Dox and took a stool two over. The bartender stood—too late, Dox noted, to have noticed the bag. Gant ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini, then produced a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed his brow.
    “Heard they didn’t make proper martinis in these parts,” Dox said, with the air of someone making casual conversation with a fellow out-of-towner.
    Gant considered the hankie for a moment and smiled sardonically. “We live in hope.”
    Dox nodded. “That we do.” He waited until the bartender was distracted by his labors, then stood, placed a few one-dollar bills on the table, and exited with the bag.
    He ran a route to make sure he was still clean, then caught a tuk-tuk to a place called Little Bikes just north of the National Museum, where he rented a Honda CB400 and a full-face helmet. They tried to get him to take the bike for a week, but he told them no need, twenty-four hours ought to be just fine. He set the duffle bag across his lap and headed north, swinging around in the opposite direction when he was out of sight of the bike shop.
    In no time he was cruising along a deserted stretch of Tompum Lake on the outskirts of the city, an area he’d previously reconnoitered for this very purpose. The roads went from paved to gravel to dirt, the houses from concrete to corrugated to tar paper. Christ, these people were poor. He wondered why it was bothering him—it