Analu knocked on the flimsy slab of plywood that served as a door and after a full minute a wizened man with long white hair and a
scraggly beard peered at them from within. Analu spoke in Laotian and the man grunted. After scrutinizing Sam, he pulled the makeshift door open and stepped back to let them enter.
Sam could barely make out the bodies lying on filthy cots along the walls in the gloom. The interior was broiling, but the sleepers seemed not to notice. They passed into another room, where two men sat at a folding metal card table with a metal lockbox and an array of pipes. Analu bowed respectfully and stated his case, and the elder of the two, an ancient birdlike man with scarcely any muscle on his bones, pursed his lips and looked Sam up and down.
After extended haggling, during which Analu almost walked away three times, Sam presented a hundred-dollar bill like a first-class ticket to New York. The opium dealer reached out with an emaciated arm, held it up to the light filtering through a filthy window, and murmured to his companion. The man who’d shown them in smiled in a way that reminded Sam of a Komodo dragon. Analu shivered involuntarily.
The old dealer leaned forward and spoke in raspy but understandable English seasoned by fifty years of smoking opium. “Crazy Englishman hang out at Lulu’s. One klick north. Probably there now,” he said with the solemnity of a clergyman delivering a eulogy.
Sam turned to Analu, who looked terrified. “Do you know Lulu’s?”
“It bad place.”
Sam nodded at the dealer and thanked him for his assistance. Sam and Analu could make out the men inside cackling through the paper-thin walls as they returned to the Isuzu.
“I’d say that went well,” he said to Remi as they slid back inside the baking steel box.
“I thought I heard laughter. What was the joke?”
“Who was it that said that if you’re sitting at a poker game for fifteen minutes and you don’t know who the patsy is, it’s you?”
Remi glanced at the building. “A wise man.”
The engine caught on the third sputter, and, a few minutes later, they were easing to a stop in front of a long rectangular shack with a thatched roof that made most of the hovels in the world look like palaces. Two motorcycles rested on rusting kickstands near the door, where a rooster stood, head swiveling, searching for anything edible. Music drifted from inside, and female laughter pealed over the melody, which to Sam’s ear sounded like an out-of-tune children’s recital with an aggravated bird of prey screeching over the din. He and Remi exchanged glances and then Sam took her hand and led her to the darkened doorway. A shabby pale green sign overhead announced that they’d arrived at Lul’s—the last u having rubbed off at some point.
The interior was no surprise, given the curb appeal of the roadhouse, but, even so, Remi was taken aback. Soiled straw littered the dirt floor, which was dotted with six white plastic tables, all devoid of patrons. A wood-and-bamboo bar lurked at one end of the gloomy room, where a rail-thin man in his fifties sat watching a black-and-white television, behind which stood two decrepit refrigerators. At the other end, a local woman in garish red stretch pants sat drinking at a wooden table littered with empty beer bottles. Her companion was a Caucasian man with the unhealthy jaundiced complexion of a hobo, who stared at the newcomers with the blurry, unfocused gaze of a man who thought he was hallucinating.
“Lazlo. Nice place you’ve got here,” Sam said, fake cheer in his voice as he approached the table.
“Good heavens. Most remarkable. Sam . . . Fargo. What on earth are you doing here?” Lazlo asked with a slur. “And if I’m not mistaken, with the lovely Rami?”
“Remi,” she corrected. “And no, you’re not mistaken.”
Lazlo made a valiant attempt to stand, an ambitious act that appeared to exhaust him. He sensibly downgraded his chivalry to a wave of his limp hand. “Please, have a seat. Bartender, drinks all around!” he called. The man behind the counter looked up as if registering the newcomers for the first time and raised an eyebrow.
“A beer,” Sam said over his shoulder, while Remi shook her head. Analu stayed at the door, looking ready to run at any moment. A creaky fan with cracked plastic blades suspended from a beam twirled overhead, blowing Lazlo’s cigarette smoke at the young woman, who appeared to be twenty-something going on sixty.
The bartender opened the nearest refrigerator and extracted a bottle of Beerlao Original, then padded over on bare feet and placed it on the table in front of Sam, showing no interest in clearing away Lazlo’s empties. Lazlo raised his half-full beer in a toast. Sam clinked his bottle against it, taking in Lazlo’s dilated eyes as he did so, as well as the three drained shot glasses next to the dead soldiers.
The beer was surprisingly cold. Sam took a long pull before setting it down and waiting for Lazlo to ask what they were doing there. Lazlo drank the rest of his beer in three gulps and dropped his smoldering cigarette down the neck, watching it extinguish with a damp fizzle before setting the bottle next to its empty brethren. Remi shifted uncomfortably on her hard chair and Lazlo finally got the hint. He regarded his female friend and rattled off a rapid-fire sentence in passable Lao. She finished her drink, rose, and teetered off toward the bar on high heels that left little doubt as to her vocation.
“So good to see you, old chap. Really. Whoever would have thought . . .” Lazlo began, but quickly seemed to deflate. “Bit under the weather at present, though. Not my usual effervescent self.”
“I can see that, my friend. But it’s good to see you, too,” Sam said as he leaned back in his chair. He fixed Lazlo with an amenable look. “What’s a nice Brit like you doing in a place like this, Lazlo?”
Lazlo offered a humorless grin and fumbled in his shirt pocket for his smokes, then lost interest. “It’s a long and sordid story. As are most involving yours truly.”
“We traveled halfway around the world to find you, so take your time.”
Lazlo cleared his throat. “You’ve obviously heard about my little . . . indiscretion.” He shot Remi a cautious glance. “Yes, of course you have. A monumental mistake by anyone’s yardstick. But no matter. Once I got that all . . . reconciled, I decided to, well, sort of reinvent myself. Opportunity knocks often for the curious among us—and I’d been looking over some scrolls from the Khmers. And I’d always intended to get out into the world someday and make my fortune, but it didn’t work out, so here I am.”
“Here you are,” Remi echoed.
“What happened, Lazlo?” Sam asked softly.
Lazlo felt in his breast pocket and pulled out a crumpled packet containing a solitary cigarette. Both Sam and Remi noticed that his hand trembled as he lit it.
“It all started well enough. I had some promising locations mapped out and three chaps to help me in the brush. We spent a few months searching . . . but nothing. But I still kept at it. I mortgaged the flat to pay for this expedition, so I had to make it work. But that wasn’t quite what the gods had in store for me.”