Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

“I was hoping too. He’s been gone all this week.”

“Gone where?”

“Don’t know.”

“Come on. There’s nothing you two don’t share.”

“I’m serious. He came home one day in a fit of nervous excitement, packed a few clothes, told me not to worry, and left.”

“He’s retired.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. He’d been working on something with your Nurse Dtui and Inspector Phosy.”

“Did he say what?”

“Look, dust yourself off and come inside. I’ll make you a little drinkie and tell you all I know.”

“My fantasy.”

“What?”

“Civilai out of town…”

“Dream on, Casanova. I still keep my Luger under the pillow.”

“That’s encouraging. At least we make it to the bedroom.”

At the kitchen table, Nong told Siri everything she knew-about the booby trap, the poisoned cakes-everything up to the day Phosy and Dtui decided to follow up on a lead they had about the Lizard studying at Dong Dok. Civilai had told her not to worry, and was gone in twenty minutes.

“And, of course, you’ve worried,” Siri assumed.

“It’s been three days. Of course, he used to do things

like this all the time when he was in the politburo. I wouldn’t see him for weeks at a time. But he’s not supposed to be doing anything official these days. That means he’s doing things he shouldn’t. Ornery old men can get themselves in a lot of trouble, Siri.”

“Well, if he was dead you would have heard by now.”

“That’s very comforting, thank you.”

“Have you asked around?”

“All his old comrades. Nobody seems to know anything. It’s as if my darling husband has just vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Don’t panic, my love. I’ll find him.”

Every step, every line of inquiry had made the mystery even more baffling. He had one more stop to make before he would allow hopelessness to overtake him. Phosy had an office at police headquarters at the Interior Department. It was one of the few buildings where the wandering-in policy didn’t apply. A scruffy man in a large green uniform sat at the desk. His hair was so short it was more pink than black. He seemed surprised to have a visitor after dark.

“Help you?”

“I’m looking for Inspector Phosy.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“Haven’t seen him all week.”

“Do you have any idea…?”

“No. I just man the desk. If you have any inquiries-”

“I know. Ask in the morning when someone with a mind is on duty.”

“Hey, no need to be rude, old man.”

Siri took a deep breath and reminded himself where he was.

“Look, I’m sorry. This isn’t police business. I’m a friend of the inspector. I haven’t seen him for a few days and I’m worried about him.” Just for effect he added, “I’m Siri Paiboun, the national coroner.”

“Then I reckon I’ve heard of you.”

“Could you just give me a hint?”

The night man looked up into Siri’s tired eyes and obviously decided he wasn’t a threat to security.

“All I can tell you is that something big went down earlier in the week and your pal was caught up in it. Him and a couple of other people have been missing since. Nobody’s saying what happened to them. We’ve had the director of police and half a dozen Vietnamese advisers here running around. But I didn’t tell you this.”

Siri’s was the only engine disturbing the silence in Vientiane that night. He’d reached the stage where he didn’t know what to do, who to ask. The fatigue of the past few days was squeezing rational thought out of him. With no idea how much precious petrol there was in his tank, he rode around the streets of Vientiane’s humble downtown. It was a grid of no more than twenty blocks, most of them dark, deserted, and uninviting. Few Lao could afford a night out and for those who could, the curfew had them home by ten. The resident foreigners had their favorite spots and kept them alive. Ninety percent of the entertainment venues had closed down since the

Royalists left and the remainder were pale shadows of their lively pasts.

Siri had no idea why he was still there. If he’d been looking for inspiration, it didn’t come. He’d ridden four times past Daeng’s shop and banged on the shutters twice. He’d stopped at the spot on the bank of the Mekhong where he and Civilai ate their baguette lunches and solved the problems of the universe together. His heart felt heavy in his old chest. He didn’t want to assume the worst but the worst kept tapping him on the shoulder.

Finally, he stopped at a roti stall down by the old deserted Odeon cinema. He figured sugar might be the solution. He ate two sweet condensed-milk roti with castor sugar sprinkles and ordered a third before it occurred to him he hadn’t eaten since the pork the previous evening. What a different place, time, and dimension that all seemed now.

“Siri?”

The voice from behind him was warm. He turned to see Bassak, one of the clerks from the Department of Justice. He was waiting for a girl to fill an order at the minced-fowl stand beside Siri’s.

“Good health, Bassak.”

“It’s good to see you alive, Siri. Welcome back.”

“Thank you.”

“I hear the judge made it back too.”

Siri shrugged.

“Never mind,” Bassak sighed. “So you’d all be out celebrating then?”

“No, just can’t sleep. You know how it is? It’s like traveling by air. Once you land, your soul takes a while to forget it’s flying.”

“Never flown myself.”

Bassak collected his spicy minced duck and climbed onto his bicycle.

“What did you mean, ‘you all’?” Siri asked.

“What’s that, comrade?”

“You said, You’d all be out celebrating.’’’

“Oh, I assumed you’d just left the others.”

“What others?”

“I just dropped off some quails’ eggs at the Russian Club. The wife raises quail for a bit of extra cash. They’re a bit like chickens: eat whatever you feel like giving them. We can make about…”

“Comrade, who did you see?”

“Your people, Dtui and Geung. I can’t see them turning up for work on time tomorrow.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know who’s footing the bill but there seemed to be enough beer bottles on the table to put the glass factory on double shift again.”

“You’re sure it was them?”

“Come on, Siri. How likely is it I’d mistake Geung and Dtui for any other couple?”

The Russian Club wasn’t a club and it wasn’t exclusively for Russians. It was a wooden restaurant, open to the elements on three sides, that sat brazenly beside the Mekhong. Two of its music speakers were deliberately turned toward the river to disturb the Thais. There was probably a pair of binoculars or two trained on the clientele most nights, perhaps even a camera with a telescopic lens. The customers of the Russian Club liked to boast of their inclusion in Thai anticommunist files whenever they enjoyed a night out there.

The club had once been a favorite haunt of foreign correspondents, the last of whom had been kicked out earlier that year. Now the only news to escape the country was gleaned from the gossip of refugees. The place had been taken over by Eastern European experts, Vietnamese advisers, the odd expatriate diplomat, and one or two foreign teachers who had, curiously, been allowed to stay. Lao were in the minority and included guests and counterparts of the experts, those with connections, and those who had converted their savings to gold before the value of the kip plummeted to below that of used cigarette papers.

Not wanting to leave Danny and Eric unguarded on the back of the motorcycle, Siri carried them up the steps and into the busy restaurant. He walked along the rows of tables and the patrons there, assuming he was selling something, either averted their eyes or waved him away.