Jack O'Connell - Wireless

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.

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.

“I’m here to see Loke,” she finally says to the skinny kid. “I’ve got an appointment.”

His eyes are locked on her breasts and she lets it go and waits and after a minute, without looking up to her face, the kid says, “Get inside.”

It’s dark in the clubhouse and she blinks a few times to help her vision adjust. The place is smaller than she’d expected. Years ago it was a neighborhood spa and there’s still a small marble lunch counter at the rear of the room with built-in silver soda-water dispensers. Hazel keeps her head steady but lets her eyes move in a circle. Things become clearer.

There’s a small billiards table in the center of the room with a trio of hooded green lamps suspended over it. Mounted on the right wall is a series of cue holders filled with a display of unmatched sticks. There’s an old Asteroids video game in a corner with its power cord unplugged and dangling before the black screen. Running along the left wall are three Naugahyde booths and scarred wooden tables. A single Hyena sits in each booth, slouched sideways, back against the wall, legs propped up on the seat. They’re dressed in their standard gear — black stretch muscle shirts, white cotton gi pants, and sandals that look like they’re made of hemp. And they’re nothing like the doorman. They’re all pumped up, definitions of upper-body strength. Their hair is cropped close to their scalps. Hazel would judge them to be eighteen or nineteen years old. One of them has a set of nun-chucks draped around his neck like a fighter’s towel.

They stare at her without saying a word and she tries to keep herself from acknowledging that she could be in some serious trouble. But this is the price she needs to pay and there’s always danger in moving to a new world.

Behind the lunch counter, a set of swinging double doors suddenly opens and a tall Hyena steps through and stands with his hands on his hips. He barks a command in Khmer at the doorman, and the kid jumps into action, moving behind Hazel and putting his hands on her shoulders. She starts to flinch and then realizes he means to frisk her, so she makes herself stand rigid as hands run over her body, pausing way too long on her ass and breasts.

After rifling her pockets, the doorman steps away from her and nods. The Hyena behind the counter motions for her to walk toward him. She moves slowly, trying not to betray the growing suspicion that this meeting probably won’t get her much beyond robbed and humiliated.

She steps behind the lunch counter and the Hyena points to the swinging doors. She ends up in a small paneled corridor with a single door halfway down. She looks for a rear entrance, but doesn’t see one, so she steps up to the door and knocks.

A voice from within yells, “It’s open.”

Inside, behind a teak platform desk, sits Loke, the head of the Angkor Hyenas. He’s tilted back in a deep green leather swivel chair that’s trimmed with nailheads. On the desk is a white cordless phone, a foreign newspaper, and a blank yellow legal pad.

Loke’s head is tilted slightly to the side and he has his hands clasped together and resting on his stomach. He’s wearing a variation on the Hyena colors. He’s got on the sandals and gi pants, but his torso is covered with a white cotton V-neck sweater that bears a small Yale University insignia.

He looks older than the ones outside, maybe in his early twenties. His hair is longer than his soldiers’ and he’s got it slicked straight back with styling gel. On the back of his right hand, Hazel spots a tattoo of the same Hyena from the Habermas factory billboard.

“Have a seat,” he says in a low and friendly voice, and he indicates two matching, low-slung black leather chairs positioned before his desk.

Hazel sinks into one and glances around. Loke’s office is much brighter than the outer clubhouse. The decor shocks her. The place has a clean and ordered feel to it. Three walls are painted white and the fourth is lined with black metal utility cabinets all padlocked closed. On the wall behind Loke are two matted and framed maps — one of Quinsigamond and the other of Cambodia. Between them is a framed calligraphied quotation that reads: