Lawrence Block - Tanner On Ice

“Well, of course it’s bitter,” I said. “They’re not after-dinner mints.”

“Very bitter,” he said accusingly.

“Very bitter indeed,” I agreed. “After all, they’re quinine.”

“Quinine?”

“A form of it.”

“I think heroin,” he said.

“Oh, right,” I said. “That’s very amusing. Heroin for malaria protection.”

“No need for quinine,” he said. “There is no malaria in Myanmar.”

“I know,” I said, “and it don’t rain in Indianapolis in the summertime.” He stared at me. “It’s a song,” I explained. “Little green apples? Roger Miller? Never mind.”

“Heroin,” he said authoritatively. “But we see. Send pills to laboratory, test them. See if they quinine or heroin.”

“Fine,” I said. “You take them, and let me know what you find. Meanwhile I’ll just continue to enjoy your beautiful city and-”

“You come,” he said. “You go to jail now.”

“Jail?”

“For little while,” he said, “until we get report from laboratory. If pills are what you say, then you will be deported from Myanmar and returned to your own country.”

“But why? For telling the truth?”

“For giving false information when registering at hotel. For claiming to be tourist on visa application and pursuing commercial interests.”

“Oh,” I said.

I waited until we were crossing the lobby to ask what would happen if the pills were heroin.

“Then you a drug trafficker,” he said. “And we hang you. Not with belt, though. We use rope.” And he said something in Burmese – a translation, I suppose. And everybody had a good laugh.

The cell wasa cage built into a corner of the room. It was a perfect ten-foot cube, with the floor and ceiling and two walls making up four of its six sides. Steel bars formed the other two sides, with a door fashioned in one. It had swung open to admit me, and had swung shut with me safely inside. A padlock the size of a man’s hand assured it would not swing open again.

There was a mattress in one corner of the cell and a chamber pot in the other. That would have been fine for one person, but there were two of us. My companion was sitting cross-legged on the mattress when they shoved me into the cell, and he didn’t change position or utter a word until they left. Even then he remained silent until I looked up at a sound of rhythmic thumping overhead.

“He’s dribbling,” he said. “The guard. Dribbling a basketball. Didn’t you see what they had on the ground floor? There’s a basketball backboard and a few other odds and ends of athletic equipment. When he can’t stand sitting at the desk and staring at me, and when he doesn’t feel like stretching out on the couch and ignoring me, he’ll go upstairs and shoot baskets. I don’t know if the ball ever goes through the hoop. There’s no clue from the sound if he’s missing or making his shots.”

“You’re Australian?”

He grinned. “The accent, right? Yeah, I’m from Melbourne. And you’re a Yank.”

“From New York.”

“Never been there. Always wanted to go. What did they get you for, mate?”

“Lariam,” I said.

“Lariam,” he said. “What the fuck’s Lariam?” His eyes widened. “You mean for malaria?”

“Against it, actually.”

“Stone the crows,” he said. “You can get high on Lariam?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what do the sodcutters care if you take it?”

“They’re going to analyze it,” I said, “and see if it’s heroin.”

“Is it?”

“No, of course not. But I’d guess the lab report will say whatever they want it to say. If they just want to deport me, they’ll say it’s Lariam. If they want to kill me, they’ll call it heroin.”

“Kill you,” he said. “Would they do that?”

“I hope not.”

“Stone the crows.” He got to his feet, a very tall and slender young man with shaggy hair and a full beard, all of a reddish blond. “What we’ll do,” he said, “is we’ll sleep in shifts.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”

“You think so now,” he said, “but wait until you’ve been here a couple of hours. If the heat doesn’t put you to sleep, the boredom will. Don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette, do you?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Very wise. Fucking things’ll kill you. Wouldn’t help if you did, because the sodcutters’d confiscate ’em, same as they did mine. Took me belt and shoes, too. Yours as well.”

“Yes.”

“So we won’t hang ourselves, though how could you? Nothing to hang from. And the shoes are a right puzzler. Mine didn’t even have laces, they were slip-ons, and they took ’em anyway.”

“I think they’ve got something against shoes,” I said. “Not just in monasteries and pagodas. I think they disapprove of them altogether.”

“You ask me,” he said, “they hate the whole idea of feet. Fucking sodcutters would be happier if everybody was cut off at the knees. We’d all be scooting around on little wheeled platforms, eating rice and kissing Buddha’s arse.”

“There’s a picture,” I said.

“It is, isn’t it? Name’s Stuart, mate.”

“I’m Evan.”

“And you’re a Yank and I’m an Ozzie, and here we are in a fucking jail. Not even a proper jail, either. A concrete block shithouse of a building with a sodcutter playing basketball on top of our heads.”

“I wish he’d stop.”

“Oh, he will. Then he’ll come downstairs and sit over there and stare at us, and you’ll wish he’d go upstairs and dribble some more.”

“How long have you been here, Stuart?”

“I dunno. I can’t say what day it is, and don’t tell me because I don’t know what day it was when I came here. I don’t think it’s two weeks yet, but I can’t be sure. See, day and night’s all one here, ’cause there’s no window to let the sun in and no clock on the wall. And they have the light on all the time.”

“They must have more than one guard.”

“There’s another chap, or maybe two of them. It’s hard to tell ’ em apart. They all do the same. Bring a tray of food now and then. Empty the slop jar now and then. And go upstairs now and then and play fucking basketball until you want to scream.”

“What are you in for, Stuart?”

“I’m ashamed to tell you.”

“Keep it to yourself if you’d rather,” I said. “But I’ve been around some. I don’t shock easily.”

“Oh, this won’t shock you, Evan. And I don’t mind saying. It’s durian.”

“Durian?”

“Durian.”

“Is it an Australian word? Because it’s a crime I’ve never heard of.”

“I was eating durian,” he said.

“Eating it.”

“Yes.”

“Is it some kind of drug?”

“No.”

“Or an endangered animal species? Is it like eating whooping cranes?”

“Jesus, no. It’s a fruit.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I thought it sounded familiar. What’s wrong with eating it? Does it get you high?”

“Not like drinking pints does.” He sighed. “I say, mate, you wouldn’t have a pint in your back pocket, would you? Nice frosty pint of Foster’s?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Like I thought. Can’t even get Foster’s in this sodcutting country. Just the local brew. Mandalay. Tried it yet?”

“Yes.”

“Tastes like piss, don’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

He frowned. “Thought you said you tried it.”

“I did,” I said. “But I never tried the other.”

“The other.” He thought about it, then let out a whoop. “Stone the crows! You never tried piss. Jesus, I never tried it meself. Never hope to try it. Mandalay beer’s as close as I ever hope to get.”