Iguaran continues to stare out at the movie, but he says, “I’m listening.”
“Look, Iguaran,” she says, “both you and I know things are about to happen. There was a balance for a long time down here. You people ran Latino Town and Cheng ran Little Asia and Reverend James took the Projects and everything north. Little pockets of upstarts came and went but the disputes were always worked out before business could be damaged. Okay, fine. But now it’s gone. The old order is running down. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not blind. And I think you and I are both looking for a new balance. I’m saying the two of us have some mutual goals.”
Finally, he looks back at her and in a bland voice says, “You’re saying we’re both pragmatists …”
She stares at his eyes. “And I’m saying we both know there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
Iguaran gives away a smile and glances over his shoulder at Nabo, as if he wants his son to pay close attention to a lesson in progress. He says, “Very true. That’s the only belief allowed in this part of town. We’re both devotees of the barter system.”
“I’m looking for some information.”
Iguaran waits a long beat, then begins to nod his head slightly and in a much lower voice says, “The priest’s murder.”
“What do you know?”
“I know my people had nothing to do with it. I hope we can agree on this point. We had no quarrel with Father Todorov. We’re Catholics, for God’s sake. And even if, for some hidden reason, we did have a grudge against the priest, now wouldn’t be the time for a move. Would it, Detective?”
Hannah sighs and turns to look at the movie. After a minute she turns back and says, “I don’t think the Popes did it. But I think it’s possible they could find out who did. If you asked them to.”
Now Iguaran fights a smile. “We may be able to ask around. Look for any new faces. Check into any deviant behavior …”
He lets his words drift off and Hannah says, “I’m prepared to offer some future concessions.”
“Give me twelve hours, my friend. If there’s anything worth knowing, I’ll have it by then.” He gives an abrupt nod, turns to Ursula, and snaps, “Quito la aguja.”
And it’s clear to Hannah that their meeting has adjourned. She turns awkwardly and heads for the stairs, glancing at Nosferatu as she walks. A young man in period dress is reading from an oversized book. Hannah knows the book is the log of the captain of the Demeter, the ship that brings Dracula to England. The captain’s entry flashes up on the bricks:
18 May 1838
Passed Gibraltar — Panic on board
Three men dead already — mate out of his mind
Rats in the hold — I fear the plague
Up in the office loft, she takes one last look down at Iguaran. It’s as if she’s waiting for a feeling to hit her, something comforting but without a name, some corollary to instinct that could assure her that a year down the road she’ll have formed a delicate accommodation with this Colombian patriarch, a well-tuned give-and-take that would allow them both not only crucial information but also a margin of ease where they could share loose counsel.
The desire bothers her because it feels like a betrayal of Dr. Cheng. Because it’s a coded way of acknowledging or even affirming the thought that maybe Cheng won’t be around in six months. And that maybe it’s time to start forming new relationships.
She watches as Ursula removes the IV needle from Iguaran’s arm and applies a round, flesh-colored Band-Aid to the wound. She tries to study Iguaran’s face as he gestures for his son to approach and then starts whispering in the young man’s ear. She doesn’t feel any kind of connection. Not even the vague stirrings of chemistry that could result in a future connection, a moment when she could caution him that the best evolutions are always the slowest, the ones that subtly give the organism plenty of time to assimilate in its new form, to get comfortable and natural enough within its new self to pay full attention to its environment.
She’d like to envision a coming era when she could inject this kind of warning. But right now, all she feels is the certainty that it’s just not her job.
11
As you cross through the intersection of Voegelin Street and Watson Street and unofficially enter into the outer perimeter of Bangkok Park, you pass under the shadow of a huge, abandoned billboard mounted long ago atop the old Habermas factory. Over the course of the past decade, the advertisement for fire safety has faded and chipped into a dull, sun-bleached rectangle of white. Now none of the original picture or words remain. In their place, on the white background, an anonymous artist has painted, in a Day-Glo shade of green, a detailed rendering of an apelike creature. It’s a fierce animal and there’s an unnatural intelligence in its face, along with a humanlike expression of rage. Underneath the beast is a foreign inscription that the locals know is written in Khmer. In smaller letters beneath this, in English, is printed a rough translation: Hyenas Rule.
Hazel glances briefly up at the billboard, catches herself, lowers her eyes back to the sidewalk, and picks up her pace. She’s wearing a pair of black stretch jeans and a blue sleeveless T-shirt with the words You’re Guilty stenciled in black across the front. She’s getting a lot of looks from all the drunks as she walks by their stoops. Eddie had wanted to come with her, but she refused. It would have been nice to have brought in two sets of eyes and Eddie’s biceps and attitude, but she couldn’t let him think she needed an escort into what she hopes will be their new home. It was bad enough that Eddie had to make the connection for her.
He plays nine ball every now and then at a dump on the Canal-Bangkok border, a place called the Play Penh Social Club. It’s one of the few halls that still keep a room in the back strictly for billiards. And as Eddie has said to her more than once, “You know how much those jarheads go for billiards.” After the Play Penh closed up one night, Eddie paid twenty bucks to a guy named Tho for a five-minute conversation. It was clear from Tho’s lack of colors or tattoos that he wasn’t a Hyena, but he had a cousin who was a. lieutenant to Loke, the Hyenas’ current CEO. For another twenty, Tho promised to set something up.
So now Hazel’s headed for a tiny brick storefront with a hand-painted sign nailed over the entrance that reads The Angkor Arcade. She glances at her watch to make sure she’s on time and knocks on the dented steel door twice with hard flat-palmed raps. A full minute goes by, then the door is opened by a skinny Oriental kid wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of filthy white dishwasher’s pants. He’s got long, silky bangs that fall in a rigid line just barely above his eyes. He stands in the doorway, expressionless, looking her over. There’s no muscle on him and Hazel would bet she could take him down to the floor with a fast knee and a boot to the ankle, but she’s the intruder here and no matter how rude things get, no matter how much attitude gets thrown at her, she’s got to stay quiet and respectful. Maybe more than anywhere else, in Bangkok Park beggars cannot be choosers.